


Once Upon a Winter

by wotcherharry



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Anastasia (1997), Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe, Anastasia AU, Arya-centric, Eventual Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, F/M, Fluff, Gendrya - Freeform, Happy Ending, Implied Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Inspired by a Movie, Jon Snow is King in the North, Older Arya, POV Multiple, Princess Arya, Protective Jaime, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-01-16 01:33:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 25,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12332799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wotcherharry/pseuds/wotcherharry
Summary: Arya Stark hasn't been seen for ten years, but Gendry and his accomplice Davos Seaworth are about to pull off the biggest con in history: with a fake Arya Stark, they'll claim the reward money from her sister, the Queen in the North. Little do they know that when Anya No-Last-Name with no memories and a needle-like sword stumbles across their path, they've got their hands on the real thing.An AryaxGendry fic inspired by the 1997 movie Anastasia. Obviously, I don't own any of the characters or quotes/lines taken directly from the movie, the TV show, or the ASOIF books.





	1. Prologue – Dancing Bears

**Author's Note:**

> Not my first attempt at a fic, but my first time sharing one! I just have a lot of feels for Gendry and a lot of love for Anastasia - and they mesh so well together. Any feedback/comments welcome!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (AU set in the Game of Thrones (TV) universe: Cersei rules over King's Lading, Dany is in Essos, Jon and Sansa rule in the North, the White Walkers aren't an issue here. Just to lay it all out, in case you were wondering what the hell's going on. Otherwise, everything else happens pretty much exactly as it does in the show, up to S7. Hopefully that'll all make sense as you read.)

“Do we _have_ to go?” she asked her mother.

            Catelyn laughed, drawing Arya to her lap. Arya wouldn’t usually let her mother coddle her like that, but they’d be leaving in the morning. It was their last night in Winterfell before the royal party set off, and there was a great feast. King Robert’s laugh boomed across the hall, as did her father’s. Somewhere else, Sansa’s laugh was high and pretty as she sat beside the prince.

            “I’ll miss you,” she said.

            Her mother kissed her head. “I’ll be with you again soon, love. When Bran’s better, I’ll visit you in the Capitol. We all will.”

            As they sat apart from the feast, her mother braided her hair and hummed their lullaby. _Dancing bears, painted wings, things I’ll always remember, soon you’ll be home with me…_

            They would never come to visit.

            Arya would never be home with her mother.

            She travelled to King’s Landing with her father and her sister and for all its grandeur and glory, it was full of blood and secrets.

            Her father lost his head for some of those secrets. She watched it happen at the Sept, while her sister stood near him and screamed. The man from the Night’s Watch bundled her down a corridor, shearing her hair almost to her scalp with rough jerks of his knife.

            Her brother Robb would go to war for their father, and he’d never go back home. Their mother would go with him, and she would never go back either. One of their own – someone they’d always thought of as one of their own – would murder her youngest brothers and burn down their home. Her sister would be passed from one monster to the next, until a house they thought an ally would betray them too, and she’d be sold to them, like a broodmare.

            Arya would not know any of this mattered to her.

            Gold Cloaks closed the city down, and chased after the Night’s Watch; she knew they were after her. What else could they want? It didn’t take them long to catch up, attacking them in the middle of the night.

            The blacksmith boy who’d helped her up onto the back of the wagon on the day they’d left King’s Landing lunged in front of her, blocking a sword with his hammer. She dived beneath his arm to pierce the soldier with her sword. Needle, she’d called it.

            He grabbed her by the collar, shoving her away. “Run!”

            She had.

            She ran.

            She fell.

            When she woke up, she wouldn’t remember a thing.

 

 


	2. Chapter One – A Rumour In The Capitol

“I got this from the palace – it’s lined with real fur!” A seller thrust a cloak towards them, blinding Gendry for a moment with reams of thick grey material. Stark colours, for sure.

            Davos tossed a coin at the seller, bundling the cloak under his arm.

            “What did you do that for?”

            “It could be worth a fortune if it belonged to her.”

            Gendry scoffed. “Look at the size of it! That’s a woman’s cloak. She was a child.”

            “But she’s a woman now, isn’t she?”

            Gendry laughed, shaking his head slightly. “At least she’ll look the part.”

            “Aye, but we have to find her first.”

            “Soon, old friend. We’ll have her soon. And then it’s on to Winterfell. Imagine the reward her dear older sister will pay.” He’d been dreaming about chests of gold ever since he’d thought up this scheme. More money than he’d ever seen in his life. More money than he could ever spend in a lifetime.

            All he had to do was find a girl. It didn’t have to be _the_ girl. She only had to be close enough. They’d coach her, fool the wolves in the North, and be retired in Pentos with piles of gold, all before you could sing _Rains of Castamere_.

            Gendry clapped his old friend on the back. “I rented the rooms. All we have to do is wait for her to come to us. One of them has to look the part. Someone has to.”

            “If the Gold Cloaks hear about this –”

            “Then I’m relying on you to smuggle us out of the Capitol.”

            “I’m getting too old for all this,” Davos muttered, reaching for his knucklebones.

            Gendry reached out to a nearby stall, flipping a copper towards them as he took a pie and started off down another street. “I’ll meet you there later. Bring the luggage.”

            “You really think this is going to work?”

            Gendry laughed, and spun back, grinning. “You’re forgetting you’re our secret weapon, Davos. Jon Snow will trust it’s Arya Stark if you say she is. Besides, what’ve we got to lose?”

            “Oh, our lives, our heads? The rest of my knucklebones?”

            He only laughed again as they parted ways for now. Davos might not be entirely convinced by the plan, but he’d gone along with it all the same, pilfering whatever he could from the palace and the markets. Wolf pins and fur cloaks, books on the history of her house and the Seven Kingdoms – even a Valyrian Steel dagger, to add to their illusion of the lost princess and her grandeur.

            They’d spent some of their last gold renting out rooms in a brothel to hold their auditions, and to bribe the madam for her silence. Gendry was lucky she had a soft spot for him, too, or he’d have been worried she’d turn them in to the Gold Cloaks.

            They had everything in place. A flawless plan.

            All they needed was the girl.

            And gods – that was harder than he’d ever anticipated. By the time dusk had fallen, and their auditions had begun, Gendry had been full of hope and ambition, already dreaming of fountains of fine Arbor gold, a Pentoshi manse with sprawling grounds, and the finest whores from Lys and Volantis and Essos…

            By the fifth girl, he was starting to lose hope.

            By the twelfth, he’d just about lost the will to live.

            Davos, for his part seemed to be torn between fits of laughter at how horribly this entire thing had turned out, and utter dismay at how they’d wasted their last coins on such a ridiculous delusion.

            There had been blonde whores, a girl from Naath and another from Braavos, girls with dark skin, girls with reddish hair and a girl they were quite sure was only a eunuch.

            When the last one had gone, Gendry slammed his ledger shut, leaning forwards to rub his hands over his face. “Alright. You can say it.”

            “Say what?”

            “That you were right, and I was wrong. This was stupid, and a complete waste of time. And all our money.”

            “Maybe we should keep trying.”

            “No. No, if nobody showed up tonight that’s good enough, nobody will. Word’s been out long enough.”

            “And what now? We just give up? You go back to your forge, and I go back to smuggling?” Davos scoffed, leaning back in his chair to cross his arms, shaking his head. “Aye, a fine life that is.”

            “What else are we supposed to do? You think the right girl is going to come waltzing through that door any moment now, and change our lives?”


	3. Chapter Two – Somewhere Down This Road

The Braavosi captain laughed at her. “No further.”

            “Please. Just to the Reach.”

            “You got more gold, little girl?”

            “Well, no, but –”

            “No gold, no travel. We dock here. You can leave on your own, or I will have my men throw you off my ship. Your choice, little girl.”

            Anya grit her teeth, but nodded. Fine. If she had to get off in the Capitol, then fine. It was far from ideal, but she’d make do.

            She’d wanted to go North. She didn’t know what was North, exactly, but it had to be better than she’d left behind in Braavos. The Faceless Men had trained her, but she’d known that wasn’t a life she wanted.

            They’d sent the waif to kill her when she tried to leave, but they’d trained her too well: and now the waif’s face hung somewhere in their stone halls in the House of Black and White.

            Braavos had nothing for her now. She’d stolen some gold, bought passage on a ship to Westeros, and here she was.

            King’s Landing was a dangerous place to come to, she knew that much. But what choice did she have? With no more gold, this was where her journey had to end.

            At least for now.

            She’d move on somewhere else. She’d find a way out of this city, this city that stank of shit and sweat and a thousand and one other things, and find somewhere else. Maybe she could be a bar wench somewhere in the Riverlands. Maybe she could be a kitchen maid somewhere in the Neck. Maybe she could sell her sword in the North – she heard girls could fight up North. That was what she hoped to do – but North was a long way, especially for a girl with no money.

            North appealed to her. The only clues she had to who she was were her sword and the Northern accent she’d partially lost in the last few years in Braavos. She must have been a Northerner, before.

            Anya saluted the captain before she disembarked. “Valar morghulis.”

            He smiled, inclined his head in return. “Valar dohaeris.”

            She walked down the pier into the city, and she didn’t turn back.

            Her heart pounded against her chest, and her fingers tightened around her sword hilt. Aside from the possessions she’d picked up in Braavos – mostly clothes – her sword was the only thing she had from before.

            She didn’t know what before was, exactly, but there had to be something. She hadn’t sprung into existence ten years ago with hair shorn off and castle-forged steel hanging at her side.

            The trouble was she couldn’t remember. She knew there had to be something. She wished she could remember.

            Had she had a family? Had there been people who loved her? Had she had a home?

            There had been a time when she’d dreamed of family. Of smiling faces and lullabies, of laughter and snowfall in the summer.

            And then she’d joined the Faceless Men, to become No One. And No One didn’t need a family or a home, only a face to use to serve the God of Death.

            If she hadn’t wanted a family and a home so badly, maybe she’d still be in Braavos.

            But she shook it off. Braavos was behind her now.

            North was ahead.

            It was so far away.

            One step at a time, she told herself, and drawing a deep breath through her nose, taking in the stench of the city, she began to walk.

 

The gates to the Kingsroad were closed, blocked by Gold Cloaks.

            Anya had passed patrol guards on her way through the city, but hadn’t thought much into it.

            “What’s going on?” she asked one of the guards. “I want to leave the city.”

            “Papers?”

            “I’m sorry?”

            “Papers,” the guard repeated, terse. “Do you have papers? You need papers to leave the city.”

            “Since when have you needed papers to get on the Kingsroad?”

            “Since the Northern scum rebelled,” the guard replied. He leaned forwards, down, towards her. “It’s not getting into the city that’s the problem, it’s getting out. Although between you and me, there’s plenty of ships round here will take you to the Neck, if you’ve got the gold for it.”

            Anya nodded, and backed away. She was good at killing. Less good at thieving. And how much gold would she even need to steal to bribe her way onto a ship? It had taken a purse full of gold to get her here. She’d need more than that to get back out.

            The city was practically on lock-down.

            “Psst.”

            Anya turned, looking around, until a withered woman beckoned her over. “You want out of the city? See Gendry. The whorehouse at the bottom of the Street of Steel.”

            “Whorehouse?”

            The woman smiled, tapped her nose.

            “Wait –”

            But she’d already gone, melting into the teeming crowds. Anya eyed the guards on the city gate again warily before starting back towards the heart of the city. Someone called Gendry, and a whorehouse.

            It wasn’t much to go on, but hey – it was something.

            It was more than she’d had a few moments ago.

            Anya peered up at the Red Keep and the great castle that loomed large over the city. From here, she could make out the red and gold lion banners that hung around the walls. They were mirrored all across the city.

            A city owned and ruled by Lannisters. Across the sea, the dragon queen ruled the cities that used to surround Slaver’s Bay. The Bay of Dragons, they called it now. And in the North…

            She’d left the company of killers for what, exactly? Lions and dragons and wolves?

            Did she really think this was the chance for a better life?

            She had to try.

            She had to _try_.

            It was late afternoon already, and took her a while to manage to navigate the city and find her way to the Street of Steel. The few people she’d tried to ask for directions had been less than unhelpful. It was nightfall by the time she found the brothel.

            Uncertain, she entered.

            Inside, the place was thick with the scents of heady perfumes. Steam curled from burning incense. Half-dressed women lounged either alone, or across a man’s lap. Jugs of wine were on every table, tapestries hanging over the windows; with all the lamps turned on low, the room was cast in a reddish hue.

            “Shoo, girl.” A woman in a pretty purple and silver gown and with jewelled pins in her hair strode towards her, flapping her hands. “We don’t want your kind in here.”

            “I’m – I’m looking for someone.”

            The woman arched a brow, pursed her lips.

            “No, I’m – I’m looking for someone called Gendry. I was told I’d find him here.”

            The woman’s face relaxed, her pursed lips parting slightly before curving into a smile. Her fingers reached for Anya’s chin, tilting her head up, then this way, and that.

            “He’ll be pleased to see you. I think you’re exactly what he’s been looking for.”

            Something akin to dread coiled in her stomach.

            What exactly had she let herself in for?

            At least she had her sword.

            The woman led her upstairs, coming to a stop outside a door. “He’s just through there.”

            Anya hesitated, though. “I’m just looking to get out of the city. I’m not after any trouble.”

            “Neither is he. Go on, girl. He won’t bite.” The woman’s hand brushed her shoulder gently, and she descended the wooden staircase.

            One step then another.

            Anya pushed the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again - first time actually sharing a fic, so any and all feedback is welcome! (Even if you tell me it's utter shite, I swear.) Anyway. Hope you're enjoying so far!


	4. Chapter Three – The Biggest Con In History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek! Thanks to everyone who left a kudos or a comment, it seriously means so much to me! Hope you enjoy this chapter x

No sooner had he spoken than the door was pushed open. Gendry sighed; it would be Ros, telling him he should leave before the Gold Cloaks caught wind of this.

            Only it wasn’t Ros.

            It was a girl.

            Skinny as a rake, with dark brown hair to her shoulders, half of it pulled up in a bun at the back of her head. Her skin was pale, but her clothes were foreign. They were Braavosi clothes: a brown leather waistcoat, yellowish shirt with puffy sleeves, equally puffy trousers tucked into boots. There was a sword hanging from her hip, as skinny as she was.

            He’d seen a sword like that before, he remembered. Years ago. There must’ve been hundreds of swords like that in the world. Probably they were popular in Braavos.

            Gendry dropped his hands from his face and stood.

            “Are you Gendry?” the girl asked, looking between him and Davos.

            “Maybe. That depends who’s looking for him.”

            “I want to go North. I hear that’s where you’re going too.”

            “Aye, you’re in luck, child,” Davos said, standing. “We’ve got three passes out of the city, and –”

            “And the third is for Her Grace, Princess Arya, of the Starks of Winterfell.”

            “We are going to reunite her with her sister, the Queen in the North,” Davos added grandly, as though this was their life’s mission and they’d been hired by Sansa Stark herself. It’s not as though this girl needed to know any different.

            “And you think she’s going to crawl out of the woodwork in a whorehouse?”

           Gendry strode towards her, circling her, and she scowled, turning with him as he rubbed his bearded chin, eyes roaming up and down her.

            “Excuse me,” she barked. “Will you stop circling me? What were you, a vulture in another life?”

            He took her wrist, holding out her left arm while he turned her. “What do you think, Davos? Uncanny, isn’t it?”

            “What is?”

            “Aye, it is,” Davos agreed.

            All they had to go on were sketches, descriptions, of an eight-year-old girl, but didn’t this girl look just the part? Grey Stark eyes and brown Stark hair. Short, skinny. Her accent was strange, but there was a twang in it that seemed Northern enough.

            “Hm,” said Gendry, and when he stepped closer, she drew her sword, stepping back and raising it to his chin to keep him at arm’s length.

            He chuckled, batting the blade away with the back of his hand. Certainly no lady, that was for sure.

            But she was perfect.

            “Don’t fucking touch me,” she snarled.

            Well. Almost perfect.

            “Davos,” he said, “don’t you think she looks just like her?”

            “Like who?” Her patience was obviously wearing thin, and he bit back another laugh, trying hard not to grin at this unruly beast of a girl, keeping the look of awe and disbelief on his face.

            (Though it wasn’t a hard look to conjure: the similarities were bizarre.)

            “The lost princess, of course.”

            The girl laughed scornfully, mouth twisting. She sheathed her sword. “Flattery won’t stop me killing you.”

            “You could,” Gendry granted, “but then how would you get out of the city? Girl like you? Doesn’t look like you’ve got any gold. And unless you’re hiding some decent tits under that jerkin, I doubt you’re going to earn that gold here.”

            The girl’s cheeks flushed deep red, her jaw working furiously.

            Davos cuffed him over the head. “Pay him no mind, milady.”

            “I’m no lady, ser.”

            “And I’m no ser,” he quipped, though technically he was. “What’s your name?”

            “Anya.”

            “And uh, is there a last name that goes with that?” Gendry asked.

            Anya sighed, heavily. “I don’t know my last name. I know it sounds strange, but I don’t know. It could be Waters, or Sand, or bloody Tyrell, for all I know. I was found wandering near the Kingsroad when I was eight years old.”

            “And before that? Before you were eight?”

            “I know it’s strange, but I don’t remember anything about my past. Now can you help me or not?”

            “Care to tell us why you’re going North?” Davos asked her.

            She shrugged. “Can’t be worse than here. Or Braavos.”

            “What about your family? You an orphan?”

            “I guess so. Like I said, I don’t remember.”

            Gendry shot Davos a look, and the old man stared back, one bushy eyebrow arched.

            “You know,” he said smoothly, drawing an arm around Anya’s shoulders and pacing across the room, “the princess went missing when she was eight. Think about it. You look just like her. The Stark eyes.”

            “The hair,” Davos added. He lifted one of her hands lightly. “A blacksmith’s hands, they say she had, just like yours.”

            She snatched her hand back, sneering. “Are you trying to tell me I’m the lost princess?”

            “You’re the same age, the same physical type. You don’t know who your family are, and her family are looking for her. Who’s to say you aren’t her?”

            Anya laughed again, pushing him off. “You’re crazy.”

            “Listen to me,” Gendry said, “I’ve seen dozens of girls all over the country, and nobody looks as much like her as you do.”

            A bit of an exaggeration – a few dozen girls in this city, but who was counting, really?

            “If you think I’m the lost princess, you’re even crazier than I thought.” She backed away from them both, back towards the door she’d entered by.

            Davos opened his mouth, but Gendry leaned back against their table, folding his arms and then unfolding one to sweep his hand toward the door. “By all means. Good luck finding travel North.”

            Davos looked at him sharply, but Gendry ignored him, maintaining eye contact with the girl until she turned and closed the door behind her.

            “Why didn’t you tell her about our brilliant plan?” Davos hissed at him.

            Gendry shook his head. “All she wants to do is go North.”

            “Are you mad?” Davos moved to grab him by the shoulders. Gendry shrugged him off, wandering away. “She was perfect! She was exactly what we’ve been looking for!”

            “She’ll be back. In three… two…”


	5. Chapter Four – Life Is Full Of Choices

“I mean, who’s to say I’m not her?” Anya asked, striding back into the room. “The Queen in the North will know, won’t she? She’ll know if I’m not her right away, and it’s all just an honest mistake.”

            “And if you are the princess,” Davos added, “you’ll finally know who you are and have your family back.”

            “He’s right. You know, either way, it gets you North.”

            Anya nodded, slowly at first, and then more assuredly. She stuck out her hand, and Gendry shook it; she didn’t miss the fleeting frown when she squeezed his fingers a little too hard.

            Gendry’s grin spread from ear to ear when she let go, and he bowed. “My lady.”

            “ _Don’t_ call me my lady.”

            “You’d better get used to it. You’re a princess now. Would you rather I call you Your Grace?”

            Anya scoffed, rolled her eyes.

            It _was_ a strange coincidence, that she didn’t remember anything before she was eight, and the princess had gone missing when she was eight. It was strange that she apparently looked just like the princess might look now.

            Not that Anya believed it, of course, not for a moment – but it would get her North.

            She was used to being No One. She could be Arya Stark for a while, if that got her out of the city.

            And besides – Sansa Stark would know the truth when they got North. An easy mistake, they’d say, and apologise, and they’d leave the wolf queen in peace, and they’d go their separate ways.

            Anya didn’t have that many choices at this moment, but this Gendry, and his friend (associate?) Davos – they seemed a good enough choice now. They’d get her North.

            More importantly, for now: they’d get her out of the city.

            “We leave at first light,” Gendry told her, and jerked his chin towards the small pack she’d left near the door. “Is that all you’ve got?”

            “Yes.”

            He nodded. “We’ve got some rooms. I’ll speak to Ros, get her to bring you a bed.”

            “I can sleep on the floor.”

            Again, Gendry smiled, almost patronising, but mostly playful. Teasing. When was the last time someone had looked at her like that? To joke around? He said, “I think Arya Stark deserves a bed. I’ll speak to Ros. And see if she can’t get you some decent clothes, too. We don’t want you standing out.”

            “Isn’t that the point?”

            “Sure. If you want your throat slit. Or to be abducted.”

            She just nodded, and watched him leave. Davos started to leave, too, but hesitated, and clapped her on the shoulder. The ends of his fingers were missing. She thought he’d say something, but he didn’t. She was almost disappointed. A few words of comfort wouldn't have gone amiss at that moment.

            She followed him downstairs, where after a few minutes, Gendry and the madam – Ros – led her to a room. Ros handed her a parcel of clothes – a brown dress of soft, light material. Anya thanked her, trying not to turn her nose up.

            But then, she supposed, if she was a princess, and a lady, she ought to get used to wearing dresses.

            “We’re just across there,” he told her, pointing, and then he took her hand, bowing low to kiss her knuckles. Anya felt her cheeks grow hot. “Until the morning, my lady.”

            “Don’t –” Anya cut herself off with a sharp sigh through her nose, shaking her head.

            Stupid, bull-headed boy.

 

She was ready when he knocked for her in the morning.

            The dress had taken her far longer than it should’ve to put on. It was made for the warm climate of the Capitol, with thin linen fabric criss-crossing around her shoulders and breasts, wrapping around her waist with a tie, falling to her ankles, a split up the front, past her knees, to make it easier to move.

            It was hardly modest, but Anya supposed she looked practically like a septa compared to the other women inside this brothel.

            Gendry blinked at her, almost like he didn’t recognise her.

            “I’m ready,” she said, filling the silence.

            He nodded once. “Good. Good. We may as well leave then. Davos is waiting for us with the wagon.”

            “Wagon?”

            “You didn’t think we’d be going all that way on foot, did you?” He smirked briefly, crossed his arms and lounged against the doorway as Arya fastened her sandals – part of her gift from Ros – and shouldered her pack. “We’ve got a long way to go, and we’ll need supplies. Unless you’re hiding a ship somewhere in that bundle of yours, we’re going to need a wagon.”

            Anya only rolled her eyes and followed him. When they passed Ros, Gendry stopped to talk with her quietly for a moment, his mouth near her ears. Ros laughed and kissed his cheek. He flipped a coin at her on his way out of the door.

            “Thank you,” Anya said, as she passed.

            “Take care of him, won’t you?” Ros folded her arms and pouted, frowning after Gendry. Her dress was so thin Anya could see the curves of her body, even her nipples, through it. “Penchant for trouble, that one.” Then she smiled at Anya, fingers plucking at the skirt of the dress. “It suits you. Lovely legs.”

            Awkward and unsure, she only smiled again and hurried after Gendry. The song of hammer hitting steel in the forges on the street rang after them as they walked back towards the gates, where they found Davos atop a wagon, hood up.

            “All set?”

            Anya threw her pack onto the wagon, and she and Gendry wandered towards the gate, Davos nudging the horses along at an easy pace.

            “Papers?” the guard at the gate asked, bored.

            Davos handed them to Gendry, who passed them to the guard. Anya was sure she saw a flash of gold exchange hands, too, but it was gone before she could be sure.

            “Casterly Rock?” the guard asked, squinting between them and the wagon. “I take it you’re the blacksmith?”

            “Aye. And my father, and my wife.”

            Before Anya could protest, the guard was looking at her again, and she found herself smiling placidly.

            The guard handed back the papers, and nodded at Gendry, before calling out instructions, and just like that…

            Just like that, the gates were open. The Kingsroad stretched ahead of them. Her heart stuttered in her chest, and something like hope or determination welled up inside her.

            The city was loud behind them: sellers peddled their wares, birds called out, children laughed and shouted and tumbled to the floor as they ran. Wagons clattered on the cobbles, the uniform footfall of patrols echoed, and there was the rush of the sea against the cliffs.

            She could have stayed here, easily enough. Found something to do with herself. Found her way onto another ship, maybe. She would have managed well enough. There were other choices.

            But she’d made her choice.

            The guards stepped aside to let them pass. Davos led the wagon out first, and Gendry and Anya followed behind it. After the gates had swung shut, she could still hear the noise of the city. But now they were alone, and she could ask her questions.

            “Wife?” was the first one.

            He only shrugged. “You don’t look anything like me. You think they’d have believed you were my sister?”

            “Did I have to be anything?” And then, “And what’s this about Casterly Rock? I thought we were going North.”

            “We are. Don’t fret, child,” Davos called back.

            “I got us papers for a blacksmith and his family to travel to Casterly Rock to work in the Lannisters’ forges there. If you think those guards were going to let three nobodies sneak North, you’re sadly mistaken.”

            “But we’re not going to Casterly Rock, are we?”

            She wasn’t sure what was waiting for her up North, but she had no desire to go straight back into the lion’s den that was Casterly Rock. Not when she’d just left the Capitol they ruled over.

            “Do you think Sansa Stark is going to show her face anywhere south of the Neck? I said we’re going North, and we’re going North.”

            They were silent for a few moments.

            “Are you always this grouchy?”

            “I’m not grouchy,” he snapped back, and Davos chuckled loudly. Gendry scuffed his foot into the dry dirt, looking for a moment all the world like a petulant child. Anya couldn’t help but laugh, and before long, he was laughing too.

            Gendry climbed onto the wagon as it moved, and offered his hand out to her.

            Anya’s head swam for a moment. It felt almost as though this exact thing had happened once before.

            But she was only imagining things, she knew, and grasped Gendry’s arm as she hopped onto the wagon beside him.

            When she’d boarded that ship in Braavos, she’d thought that her journey had started.

            She’d been wrong.

            Her journey was only just beginning.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek! Thank you everyone for the kind comments and the kudos so far! Next chapter in a couple of days, and hopefully it'll be something that's a bit of a change of pace...


	6. Chapter Five – One Little Girl Got Away

The Small Council chambers were silent. You could have heard a pin drop. Instead, the only sound was the sharp clack of the queen’s heeled shoes on the stone floors. Her head was high, her back straight as a rod, her hands clasped delicately in front of her. Her clothes were dark shades of red, marked with gold chains to match the gold of her hair.

            The Kingslayer entered behind her, and the Mountain. If fear was her power, it resided in the form of the Mountain. Even the king was wary of the Mountain, and he seemed to fear nothing.

            Jaime Lannister took a seat, and then the queen.

            “I hear you’ve something important to share,” she said to Qyburn, though she didn’t look at him until after she’d spoken, with a slow swivel of her head. Every word, every action – was measured. Calculated. Purposeful.

            “Your Grace, my little birds tell me there’s news of the Stark girl.”

            Cersei’s upper lip curled. “What of the bitch? Is she pregnant? Gathering her armies?”

            “Not…” The Master of Whisperers shuffled in his seat for a moment. “Not that Stark girl, Your Grace.”

            Cersei looked back at him, blinking slowly. Surely he didn’t mean… “Come again?”

            “There are rumours in the city, that Arya Stark has been found – that she’s travelling North, to her sister.”

            “Arya Stark.” Cersei’s fingers drummed on the table, her mouth twisting before she spoke again. “You’re telling me that _Arya Stark_ was in my Capitol and I’m only just hearing of this?”

            “We’ve only just found out ourselves, and called this meeting immediately…”

            Cersei’s fingers stopped drumming abruptly; her palm slammed onto the table in their place. Randyll Tarly flinched, just a little. “Where is she now?”

            “I’m told she left the city this morning, Your Grace, through the gates.”

            “How? _Nobody_ leaves the city without my leave. How could Arya Stark slip past? Are my guards so stupid?” She’d have their heads for this, Jaime knew. At the very least, a few weeks in the Black Cells. Cersei’s blood boiled under her skin; he could practically hear it.

            “She’s not travelling alone, is she?” Jaime said, looking up from his false hand at long last.

            “No, Ser Jaime.”

            “Who?” Cersei demanded, voice growing quieter in her fury.

            “She’s travelling with an old man and…” Qyburn hesitated for only a second. “King Robert’s bastard son.”

            “Find them!” She shot to her feet, her chair scraping. “Find them! I will not have that wolfling bitch reunited with her sister. When Eddard Stark betrayed me, he made a mistake. I will make each of them pay. We pushed the climber from a window, had his wife and eldest son murdered at a wedding – and the little bird married my damned brother before she killed my son. You’ll find me her sister.”

            “At once, Your Grace. Should I –”

            The queen cut Randyll Tarly off with a flick of her hand.

            Euron Greyjoy spoke from his seat. He sat lazily, limbs sprawled, eyes dancing. Jaime had never particularly liked Robert, but he truly loathed Euron Greyjoy – who persisted in taunting him about the relationship he’d once had with his sister. A relationship he hadn’t been able to bring himself to continue after she’d actually married the kraken.

            It was a political move, she’d told him callously. She needed his fleet to protect her throne and the Seven Kingdoms, to make sure the dragon queen across the sea didn’t get any foolish notions of invading the kingdom. It was for their family, she told him.

            Once, he might have believed her.

            “She’ll be going North. I’ll send ships to cut them off before they get there.”

            “She’ll be taking the Kingsroad,” Qyburn said. “They left by the gates, in a wagon, equipped for a long journey.”

            Jaime almost smiled at the Master of Whisperers putting the king in his place.

            Cersei turned to the Mountain, hands clasped in front of her again, her face composed.

            “Ser Gregor. Gather ten good men and bring them to me. I’ll decorate my floor with a wolf pelt and the wall with a stag’s head. Do not fail me.”

            “Cersei –”

            She cut a look at her twin, silencing him, too.

            The Mountain bowed, stiffly in his armour, and left the room.

            With another wave of her hand she dismissed her Small Council, her husband and all, and reached to pour herself some wine. Jaime lingered.

            Cersei’s face contorted before she drank. Jaime knew her well enough to know what she was thinking about.

            She’d thought she’d crushed little Sansa Stark when she’d been their prisoner all those years ago. She’d watched the little bird turn from a naïve girl with a head full of songs to something meek and terrified, abused by Joffrey and then sold off to their brother. Sansa had stood by and watched her father be executed.

            Cersei was forever furious with him for sending Brienne to find the Stark girls and protect them. Whenever Brienne of Tarth’s name was mentioned, Cersei’s lips would pinch. “That great sow,” she’d mutter at Jaime, “protecting the wolf bitch, on your orders. I hope you’re happy, you fool.”

            He knew Cersei, knew the cogs that would be turning in her mind. In her anger, she continued to believe Sansa was complicit in Joffrey’s murder.

            Hesitant of pushing her too far, Jaime said, “You know she didn’t murder Joffrey. You know that was Olenna Tyrell.”

            “I don’t _care_. She might as well have choked him herself, the whore.” Cersei drained half the wine in her glass. “They rebelled against me, against _my_ kingdom. I may not be able to take back the North, but I can take her sister away. I will _not_ allow them to be reunited. Not after everything we did to destroy the Starks when we could.”

            “You could trade her,” he suggested. “Tell the Mountain to capture her. Tell Sansa Stark and her brother to bend the knee, and they can have their sister back.”

            Cersei let out a wry laugh, arching an eyebrow at him.

            “Catelyn was willing to trade _me_ for two little girls. You think Sansa won’t go back to merely being Lady of Winterfell instead of Queen in the North if it gets her back her sister? You know how much money she’s willing to give as a reward for Arya’s safe return.”

            “No. The bitch dies.”

            Cersei drank the rest of her wine and left him.

            Jaime had fought the Starks. He’d put a spear through Lord Eddard’s leg and fought the Young Wolf’s armies on the battlefield.

            And then he’d pledged to return to King’s Landing, to his sister, and return the Stark girls in his place. Arya had vanished somewhere into the wind long before, and when Sansa fled King’s Landing, he’d sent Brienne of Tarth to find and protect the Starks.

            Maybe it wasn’t Arya Stark. Nobody had seen her in ten years. And surely they’d have known, they’d have heard, if she’d been rattling around the Capitol, right outside their walls?

            The chances were, it was more likely some pretender.

            That’s all she was, this Arya Stark. A pretender.

            That’s what Jaime told himself again when he watched the Mountain and his hunting party ride out of the Red Keep to find her.


	7. Chapter Six – Something In You Knew It

“So. Ros,” she said, and Gendry looked up. She was slouched across from him in the wagon bed, pulling apart her hunk of bread, eating it in tiny pieces. Gendry wondered if she was used to making her food last. Her face was a mask, impassive.

            “What about her?”

            “She looked sorry to see you leave.”

            “Aye, I suppose.”

            “She your girlfriend?”

            He fought to keep the smirk off his face. Why did it matter to her? He’d have wondered if maybe she was jealous, only he knew better. But still – the idea made him want to laugh.

            “Sad to see her best customer go, more like,” Davos shot back, chuckling to himself. Gendry cursed under his breath, shooting an unimpressed look the Onion Knight couldn’t see towards the front of the wagon.

            Anya sniffed, her face wrinkling.

            “Are you judging me?”

            “No.”

            “You are. Aren’t you?” He laughed, despite himself. “Maybe you are a princess.”

            “Maybe I just value loyalty.”

            “I know loyalty.”

            She shrugged, and made him wonder why he was even arguing, why it even bothered him that she wrinkled her nose at him.

            She was infuriating. That was all.

            The wagon clattered on, and night fell.

            Gendry had taken over driving their cart, to let Davos rest, but now he drew it to a halt, listening. Owls hooted. Creatures scuttled through the shadows, over leaves.

            And –

            The pounding of hoof beats. Several of them. The horse stirred, nickered, and Gendry shushed it. The hoof beats grew louder. Closer.

            He twisted, hissing, “Davos! Davos, wake up.”

            “Daybreak already?” he muttered – too loudly, much too loudly – and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the stumps of his fingers. Anya was a small lump under a blanket, her face just peeking out, lips parted.

            “Get up! We’ve got company.”

            That woke Davos. He sat up, looking around, and heard the approaching horses too. There had to be half a dozen, at least. They rode hard and fast. Almost like they were looking for something.

            Someone.

            In the distance, through the trees, flickered torches.

            “For fuck’s sake,” the old man grumbled, and he jumped down from the back of the wagon. “Here. I’ll take the horses. You get in the cart. I’m not much of a fighter, we both know that. And for gods’ sakes, don’t get her killed.”

            Quickly, they switched placed. Davos cracked the reins, spurring the horse on. Anya stirred as the wagon rattled, moving quickly, but didn’t wake. If they had to flee, it’d be easier if she weren’t asleep.

            Gendry shook her. “Anya! Anya, wake up.”

            She shrugged away from him in her sleep, and when he shook her harder, her fist flew out from under the blanket, cracking him right on the nose. Gendry fell back, hands over his face, letting out a muffled grunt.

            “Oh, gods, I’m so sorry, I –” And then she blinked, eyes adjusting. The moonlight was bright enough that he could see her smirk. “Oh. It’s you. Never mind.”

            “I think you broke my nose.”

            She sat up, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh _please_. Men are such babies.”

            “Never mind that,” he hissed. “We’ve got bigger problems.”

            She frowned, and he saw the realisation cross her face when she heard it, too. Instead of the fear he expected, her eyes focused, her mouth forming a hard line. He recognised that look.

            She was ready for a fight.

            Mounted soldiers, it had to be. The fucking queen. He’d bet Arya Stark’s entire reward on it. Her Master of Whisperers had found out that Arya Stark was leaving the city. He’d be willing to bet that they knew exactly who she was travelling with, too.

            The queen had sent her dogs after them.

            No – not a dog.

            A Mountain.

            They appeared from the trees. Almost a dozen. Most looked like ordinary soldiers, but the Mountain made the group entirely more menacing. Their torches cast everything in an orange glow.

            “Gods,” Anya whispered upon seeing him. Gendry smacked a hand on the front of the wagon, and heard Davos spur the horse on faster.

            “Yah!”

            The wagon jerked, their horse drawing them on faster.

            “We shouldn’t have stopped to rest this afternoon,” Anya told him.

            “Yes, well, it’s a little late for I told you so,” he snapped back. He turned away from their pursuers, reaching under a pile of furs for his hammer, swinging it around before getting a more comfortable grip.

            “What else have you got under there?”

            Gendry threw the furs back. Two swords, a dagger, and a bow and fletcher of arrows. “You ever used a bow?”

            “No. Have you?”

            “No.”

            She took the bow.

            “Halt!” called one of the soldiers. “In the name of Queen Cersei, I command you to halt!”

            “Tell him to stop,” Anya whispered.

            “Are you mad?”

            “Tell him! We’re never going to outrun them.”

            “And what, you’re going to run them all through with that sewing needle of yours?” Gendry scoffed, but she lifted her chin with fierce determination.

            “Stop the wagon,” she repeated. “Or we don’t stand a chance.”

            Gendry regarded her for a moment, and it was a moment too long. Stumbling slightly, she lunged to the front end of the wagon, leaning across. “Davos! Stop the wagon.”

            To Gendry’s horror – and complete shock – he did. But he turned back to them. “Sit down. Anya, keep your head _down_. Both of you, let me do the talking.”

            The horse whinnied, snorting, and came to a stop. So did the soldiers. The Mountain rode on a yard or two ahead of them. Even his horse was a great beast of a thing. It would have to be, to hold the monster himself.

            Davos dismounted, walking to the side of the wagon with his hands raised. “Hello, friends. Apologies for the chase - we feared you might be bandits. I’m not sure what you expect to find, but we’ve some food and wine to share, if not much else.”

            “You have Arya Stark of Winterfell,” called out one of the soldiers. “The queen demands she be brought back to the Capitol at once.”

            Davos laughed easily. “You’re mistaken, friends. Clovis, our papers.” Gendry reached into one of their packs for the papers they’d used to get out of King’s Landing. Clovis was the latest in a string of names they used for him whenever Gold Cloaks or someone equally unsavoury came looking. Davos took them, held them out, but moved no closer. “See for yourself. My son here’s a blacksmith. We’re on our way to Casterly Rock.”

            “Casterly Rock’s that way.” The solider who’d spoken jerked his head.

            Gendry watched Davos frown, turn in the same direction, squinting as if he could almost see it in the distance. “So it is! It’s this damned forest. All looks the same. Well, if that’s all, we’ll be on our way. Got some time to make up if I’ve been steering us the wrong bloody way, eh?”

            He’d only just made it back onto the wagon when another solider said, “So I suppose it’s a different old man, young girl, and Baratheon bastard we’re looking for?”

            Gendry stiffened as the soldier pointed at his hammer. “That’s a nice stag there on your hammer, bastard. Now hand over the girl, before we kill you all.”

            There were ten, plus the Mountain. All of them on horseback. Gendry was good with his hammer, Davos mediocre with a sword and bow both, and Anya – she had a sword, but she was such a skinny little thing. What harm could she possibly do?

            They were doomed.

            There was a rustle of fabric, and Anya stood in one fluid motion, moving to the edge of the wagon. She’d taken her sandals off earlier in the day, and her toes curled over the edge. She lifted the bow, arrow notched. The dress Ros had given her fluttered around her legs.

            Gendry couldn’t help but admire her. She might be skinny and small, her hair might be uneven, but in that moment, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

            She aimed it at the first soldier who’d spoken.

            Her head cocked to the side. “What’s more important to you? Your balls, or your life?”

            The soldier looked at her a long moment before throwing his head back and roaring with laughter.

            The sound was cut off, cut short, interrupted by a horrible gurgling noise as blood spewed from his opened throat and mouth. He slid off his horse, silent, blood pouring.

            “What about you?” she asked the one who’d seen the stag on Gendry’s hammer, grabbing another arrow. “Balls, or your life?”

            He drew his sword, and her arrow landed in his crotch. The man screamed, flailing so wildly he fell straight from his horse. The torch he’d been holding fell with him, the flames sputtering before catching on the grass and a nearby tree. The horse shied, neighing, and kicked his head before he could stand back up.

            Maybe she wasn’t as useless as he’d thought.

            But then the Mountain moved forward, sword drawn, and Anya turned to Davos. “Go!”

            And he did.

            “If we live through this,” Gendry grunted, stumbling to his knees as the wagon jerked unevenly, “remind me to thank you.”

            The Mountain pursued, and Gendry knew they didn’t stand a chance. Even so, he grasped his hammer more tightly, spreading his feet to gain his balance better. Anya was still at the edge of the wagon, though now one foot was planted behind her, stance wide, turned almost sideways.

            She loosed, and the Mountain’s horse cried out, legs buckling. For a man his size, he reacted quickly, jumping off before the horse even hit the ground. Sword raised, he charged.

            Anya turned, reaching – and Gendry was already there, arrow in hand, holding it out to her. She met his eyes for the briefest second before taking it, notching.

            He heard the twang of the bowstring as she let it go, the whisper as it cut through the air, and the squelching noise it made as it struck the Mountain in his eye. He stopped, swayed, and hit the ground. The wagon shook with the sound.

            They couldn’t risk leaving him alive.

            Gendry jumped off the wagon.

            “No, don’t!” He heard her yelling to Davos, then: “Stop! You have to stop! You have to turn around!”

            If their lives hadn’t been in so much danger, he might have turned, smirked at her, asked if she was really that worried about him – but they were in that much danger, and he ran forwards, swinging the hammer and timing it perfectly. The Mountain’s helmet caved in, and so did his head.

            The fire had spread, and Gendry looked back to see some of the soldiers trying to restrain their horses. Two had made it after the Mountain, but they drew their steeds to a halt when they saw Gendry standing over his body.

            “Tell your queen,” he told them, “I have Arya Stark. And I’m taking her home.”

            The wagon crashed behind him.

            _Oh, fuck._

            Gendry didn’t flinch; he couldn’t afford to.

            The soldiers looked between each other before looking back at him. One of them looked past him, grabbed at his companion, and they were gone.

            He looked over his shoulder when they rode away. Anya was stood only a few feet behind him, arrow poised, ready to shoot past him. When he arched an eyebrow at her, one side of her mouth curled in a smirk.

            “You’re welcome.”

            Gendry waited until the sound of their horses and the sight of their torches had died away. Only then did he let his hammer swing at his side and walk to see just how bad the damage was. Anya trailed a step behind him.

            “Seven – fucking – hells.” Davos was cussing, grunting as he tried to shoulder the wagon back upright. “Here, lad, give me a hand.”

            “What’s the use?” Gendry laughed, the sound harsh and humourless. He ran a hand over his face and back over his hair. “We don’t have a horse to pull it.”

            “What are you –? She’s right –” Davos turned, hand raised to point at a nearby log, and he cursed again. “Bollocks.”

            “You might want to put your shoes back on,” Gendry told Anya. “We’ve got a long walk ahead of us.”

            They started unloading the wagon, Anya having to crawl into the wreckage for a few things, and divvied it out between them. He and Davos took a sword each, and Anya strapped the dagger to her thigh.

            She lad lovely legs.

            Gendry caught himself, looking away abruptly. Davos caught his eye, raising an eyebrow. Gendry ignored him.

            “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Davos asked her instead. “They teach you that in Braavos?”

            “No. I just…” She shrugged, waving a hand helplessly.

            “Something in you knew it,” Davos said, clapping her across the shoulder with a beaming smile. “You saved our lives, milady.”

            “It was the least I could do. I think I’m the reason they’re endangered in the first place.” She smiled fleetingly, then looked at Gendry, brown eyes piercing as one of her arrows. “Baratheon? Like the old king?”

            He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, scratching the back of his neck. It was never his favourite topic. “Which one?” he tried to joke, then nodded when she didn’t laugh. “Robert was my father, aye. And my mother was some lowborn who died when I was little.”

            “I thought Joffrey had all his bastards killed.”

            “He tried.” Gendry shrugged one shoulder. “I got lucky.”

            “How’d you get away?” she pried, moving closer beside him, head tilted up curiously. “Did you smash all the Gold Cloaks’ heads in with your hammer, too?”

            “I was with the Night’s Watch, going North. The Gold Cloaks came after… us.” Maybe they hadn’t just been looking for him, though. “I got away. The Brotherhood Without Banners took me in for a while, but eventually I went back to King’s Landing. Easiest place to hide – right under their noses.”

            Anya nodded slowly, a faraway look on her face. She seemed to be looking right through him.

            Gendry put his hand on her arm, and her eyes focused back on his. “You alright?”

            She shrugged away. “Fine. Thank you. And I don’t need your help.”

            Anya turned on her heels, starting to march away, loaded down with as much as she could carry. Gendry lifted his own bundle, sharing a look of amusement with Davos.

            “You’re going the wrong way,” he called out, after a moment.

            “Fuck you!”


	8. Chapter Eight – Send Me A Sign

When they stopped to make camp the next night, Anya couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this exhausted. She could cope with sleeping on the ground, on little food, and function perfectly well on the five hours’ sleep she’d managed to get the night before, before they’d been surrounded by Lannister guards.

            But the _walking_.

            Gods, the walking had used muscles she’d almost forgotten about.

            They wouldn’t be walking the entire way to Winterfell, at least. They’d follow the Trident to the Riverlands and get on a boat there, and take that North.

            They hadn’t built a fire, not willing to risk the wrong people seeing them. That didn’t bother Anya so much either – she was glad they had some sense. But she’d decided to make her camp away from them. She’d practically ground her teeth to stubs over Gendry’s snide comments.

            “Don’t slouch,” he told her. “Shoulders back. Stand up tall.”

            “Easy for you to say. I’m carrying fifty pounds of furs on my back.” She’d tossed the bundle to the ground, and set her shoulders back. She had impeccable posture and balance from years of training. Who was he to tell her to put her shoulders back or stand tall?

            “Don’t walk,” he’d said later. “Try to float. Remember, you’re a princess now.”

            “And how is it you know what princesses do?”

            “I make it my business to know.” He fell into step beside her, and reached to pull her chin up. She glowered at him. “Look, Anya, I’m just trying to help, alright?”

            Anya ground her teeth before giving him the sweetest look she could muster. “Gendry, do you really think I’m royalty?”

            “You know I do.”

            “Then stop bossing me around!”

            She’d stormed away, very much not floating, Davos laughing behind her.

            Gendry was full of these little comments, and she wanted to cuff him around the head. She’d tried, having to jump up to reach, but he only knocked her back, laughing.

            It was infuriating.

            He was infuriating.

            Now, a twig snapped, startling her awake. It was barely dawn, the sky above her pale yellow and dark grey. She blinked, lying impossibly still.

            Like as not, it was only Gendry or Davos.

            No – the sound had been too light for that. A rabbit?

            Only whatever was moving didn’t seem to be moving again.

            Anya rolled onto her stomach, reaching for her sword, and stood up slowly.

            Two yellow eyes watched her from between the trees. Anya held her breath, waiting. The eyes moved closer. There was a body attached, and legs, and giant paws.

            Such giant paws. As she looked at them, smaller paws appeared on the ground. Other wolves. Only these wolves seemed tiny.

            It was only then that Anya realised how huge the first wolf was. It was impossibly huge. The small wolves weren’t small at all; they were simply dwarfed by this great grey beast.

            A direwolf, a voice in her head said, and she gasped quietly.

            There was only one direwolf South of the Wall, and that belonged to the King in the North. Something told her Jon Snow didn’t let his wolf range this far.

            The direwolf approached, stepping so lightly for a creature so large, until it was close enough to touch, if she reached out. Close enough to rip out her throat if it lunged, just a little.

            Whatever terror she should’ve felt didn’t come. She only waited with bated breath, watching the direwolf. The rest of its pack moved, expanding into a wide semi-circle around her.

            Anya set down the sword, bending slowly until she could set it on the ground, eyes on the beast the entire time. She couldn’t explain what compelled her to do it, any of it, but she trusted her instinct. It hadn’t failed her yet.

            The wolf lowered its head to sniff her. She felt its hot breath around her face, stirring her hair, its wet nose nudging her temple.

            The wolf stepped back, turning to its pack. Anya waited for them to all disappear back between the birch trees, only –

            The rest of the pack left.

            The direwolf did not.

            Anya looked at it for a while before she raised her hand. The direwolf bowed its head.

            “Good girl,” Anya murmured, instinct still driving her.

            The fur was thick, and soft, and Anya’s fingers trailed up the wolf’s nose to scratch behind her ears. She kneeled, her other hand sinking through the fur as she stroked the direwolf.

            She was still holding her breath, she realised.

            She let it all out in a huge rush, head snapping back at someone crashing through the brush.

            “Anya? Anya! Anya!”

            The direwolf looked up, too, lips peeling back to bare teeth bigger than Anya’s fingers, and growled. The sound rumbled through her; Anya felt it where her hand was still on the wolf.

            “Anya, what are you –”

            Gendry stumbled to a stop, practically falling backwards, mouth gaping open. “Anya. Anya…”

            “It’s okay,” she said quietly, scratching behind the wolf’s ear again. “She won’t hurt me.”

            “That’s – _gods_ , that’s a _direwolf_.”

            “I noticed.”

            “How – what are you…”

            “Shh. You’ll frighten her.”

            “ _I’ll_ frighten _her?_ ” He laughed, the sound wrenched and wry. Anya looked over at him, eyebrows raised; Gendry’s eyes bulged, his brow was furrowed, and he was leaning heavily against a tree. “How did you even… What’s it doing here?”

            “Hunting,” she guessed. “With her pack.”

            “A pack?”

            “They’re only wolves, though. Not direwolves.” She stood, reaching for her sword and then her belt, putting both on. The direwolf didn’t move, but her eyes followed Anya.

            “A pack of wolves? Anya, we – we should go. We have to get out of here. They’re not dogs. They’ll –”

            “I told you, she won’t hurt us.” She couldn’t have told him why she was so sure of it, but she was. If this beast wanted to hurt her, she’d already be torn open, half-devoured by the pack. But there was something… something strange about this creature.

            “Nymeria,” Anya breathed, so quietly she wasn’t sure the direwolf heard her, but she blinked slowly at Anya. The name was like a dream, or a dream of a dream. Something faint and nagging at the back of her mind. “Nymeria?”

            “I know I told you you’re the lost Stark princess, but you don’t have to try and befriend a direwolf just to prove it,” Gendry told her. He didn’t have to raise his voice: his words carried across the small clearing. “Anya. We should go.”

            “We’re going North, girl,” she told the wolf in a whisper. “North, to Winterfell. Come with us.”

            “Anya!”

            The direwolf looked at her a while longer, then at Gendry, and back again. She nudged Anya’s hand, nuzzled it – and turned away, trotting back through the trees to her pack.

            Anya watched her go. _That’s not you_ , she thought.

            She jumped at the hand on her shoulder. “Gods, Anya. Don’t scare me like that again. I thought…” Gendry sighed loudly, his breath washing over the back of her neck. “Just don’t do that again, alright?”

            “She wouldn’t have hurt us. She didn’t.”

            “You got lucky.” His hand was on her back, guiding her back to where he and Davos had made camp. “I’m serious. We’re not hauling a pack of wild wolves to Winterfell just to try and prove you’re a Stark.”

            His words were careless, but they fell heavy on Anya. She stopped walking, jerking away from him.

            “Wait – try and…? No! No, nobody ever told me I had to prove I was the princess!”

            “Look, I –”

            “Show up, yes. Look nice, fine. But lie?”

            “You don’t know it’s a lie!” he protested. “What if it’s true?”

            Anya scoffed. It was all she could do. He was truly fucking mad.

            “Okay, so it’s one more stop on the road to finding out who you are. But so what? You’re not going to see it through to the end?”

            She shoved at him.

            “That wasn’t very ladylike.”

            The words cut through her, and when she looked at him for a moment, she saw a different wood, a blacksmith boy without a beard, a younger face, laughing at her. And when she blinked, it was only Gendry.

            The exhaustion was _really_ getting to her.

 

Anya kicked a rock along a bridge at the Trident. Gendry was lagging behind, taking a piss. Davos leant against the bridge beside her, meeting her gaze in their reflection in the water below.

            “A direwolf,” he sighed. “I haven’t seen one of them in years.”

            “You’ve seen direwolves?”

            “Just the one.” He smiled, briefly, then pointed the stumps of his fingers at her reflection, “Tell me, child. What do you see?”

            Anya humoured him: “No one.”

            He nudged her arm with his elbow.

            “I see a skinny little nobody with no past, and no future.”

            “Alright. Do you want to know what I see? I see an engaging and fiery young woman, with all the ferocity of a real Stark. And I’ve known my share of Starks.”

            “You have?”

            “Aye.” He turned to her, his expression one of pride. “I fought with Jon Snow at the Battle of the Bastards. Before that, I knew him when he was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and I fought for Stannis Baratheon. I knew his sister, too – Sansa – while I was at Winterfell. And that direwolf of his, too.”

            “Ghost.”

            He nodded.

            “Why did you leave?”

            “I was a crabber’s son. Born and bred in Flea Bottom. When I grew up, I was a smuggler. I worked my way into Lord Stannis’ good graces during the siege of Storm’s End in Robert’s Rebellion – lost my knucklebones for it, of course, and he knighted me. I commanded ships at the Battle of Blackwater and served as his Hand. Hand of the King’s not a life I was made for, Anya. I left Winterfell before Jon Snow could ask it of me.”

            “And now you’re a…?” She frowned. “A smuggler, again? Back in King’s Landing?”

            The old man grinned at her, putting his hand on hers. “Half right. Now, I’m a smuggler, helping Arya Stark out of King’s Landing and returning her to her family. Trust me, Anya. I know the Starks. And I do believe you’re one of them.”

            Uneasiness settled in Anya’s stomach. They were kind words, but she worried that was all they were. Empty platitudes to convince her to go North with them. Like as not, they’d get some kind of reward for returning the princess. They seemed to have been commissioned for that very purpose.

            And she was still unsettled by her encounter with the direwolf.

            If she remembered the stories right, all the Stark children had had direwolf pups once. Arya Stark’s had been called Nymeria. Nobody had seen the beast since the family’s journey to King’s Landing, lost somewhere along the Kingsroad.

            She was fooling herself.

            She’d spent a lot of time being No One. She’d spent a lot of time being Anya, too, but she’d never really known what that meant. Anya was nobody. Anya was a name for a girl wandering the Kingsroad with no memories at eight years old.

            Maybe it would be nice, to be Arya Stark for a while.

            “Gendry said I have to prove I’m her though. Or, me. If I’m her. Won’t the Queen in the North know, though? When she sees me?”

            “That as may be, nobody gets to see the Queen in the North without getting past Lady Brienne first.”

            Anya turned to narrow her eyes at Gendry. “Nobody asked you.”

            But curiosity got the better of her.

            “Who’s Brienne?”

            “Sansa Stark’s sworn shield. Enough pretenders tried their luck that now they’ve got to get through Brienne before they gain an audience with the queen.”

            “So how do I prove it to Brienne?”

            Gendry said, like it was the most obvious thing in all the world, “You know everything there is to know about Arya Stark, of course.”

            “But I –”

            “Don’t worry, Anya,” said Davos. “We’ll teach you. House words and sigils, your House’s history, all about your family… By the time we reach Riverrun, you’ll be able to recite it all like a song.”

            “I never liked songs.”

            He smiled at Gendry, smug. “Neither did Arya Stark.”


	9. Chapter Nine – Little Anya, Beware

“She’s calling herself Anya,” the soldier informed them. He trembled, and Jaime couldn’t blame him. It was one thing to stand before the Iron Throne with bad news – another to come hauling the Mountain’s dead body (dead for good, this time, it seemed; and that was truly no great loss).

            “You’re telling me a little girl and a bastard killed the Mountain,” Euron Greyjoy sneered, stepping down slightly, towards the man. The soldier cowered visibly. “A little girl.”

            “She killed two of our men and set the forest on fire. She put an arrow in his eye and then the bastard caved his head in with his hammer. I saw it myself, Your Grace. But their wagon crashed. They can’t have got too far on foot, my queen.”

            Jaime had a modicum of respect for the bastard: he’d certainly inherited his father’s prowess with the hammer. It wasn’t many men could do that kind of damage to a man’s skull, let alone the Mountain’s.

            “Anya,” Cersei said quietly, and sneered, lip curling. She drummed her fingers on the arm of the throne, looking off to the side somewhere and not at the soldier. “Does she think changing a single letter’s enough to hide from me?”

            “Maybe not,” Jaime heard himself saying, “but she still killed the Mountain.”

            Or the bastard did, but he wasn’t here to be pedantic.

            That had always been Tyrion’s role, after all.

            Cersei glowered at him for a moment before turning an icy gaze that would make even Northmen shiver onto the soldier. “I sent you to do one thing. Bring me the Stark bitch. And you’ve failed. Quite horribly, I might add.”

            He fell to his knees. “Your Grace, forgive me, I – I only…”

            “Enough. I’ve heard enough.” Jaime saw her purse her lips and swallow. “They won’t walk all the way to Winterfell. You found them near the God’s Eye, you said? They’ll be going to Riverrun, to get a ship North from her family there.”

            Euron bent to whisper something in her ear, and she shook her head. It made his skin crawl, even if he hadn’t been close with Cersei since before she’d destroyed half the city with wildfire. But they were twins; they’d been lovers; they were the last Lannisters, if you didn’t count Tyrion, and Cersei didn’t. He couldn’t just walk away from her.

            “Ser Jaime. You’re a member of the Queensguard. The Mountain has failed me. Let’s hope you don’t.”

            “Your Grace?”

            “Bring me Arya Stark. And the bastard too, if you can manage it.”

            Cersei stood, the crowd at court parting as she departed. Euron followed, and Qyburn, and eventually Jaime, too.

 

In Cersei’s solar, he watched her drink.

            “You can’t be serious.”

            “I can assure you I’m perfectly serious.”

            “I swore a solemn vow –”

            “To a dead woman. And that great cow from Tarth has your sword to uphold your stupid vow. You swore a vow to me. To protect me and carry out my wishes.”

            He bristled, jaw working at the insult to Brienne. She was one of the finest knights he’d ever known, even if she wasn’t exactly a knight. A skilled warrior, loyal to a fault. She was the knight he’d dreamed of being when he was a young boy playing with blunted tourney swords.

            And his sister’s words angered him, too. Not only about Brienne, but about his vow, about Arya Stark. Sansa might have escaped King’s Landing and be safely ruling the North from Winterfell with her bastard half-brother now, but Arya – nobody had seen her in ten years.

            If it truly was her…

            “I didn’t make a vow to kill little girls.”

            Cersei bristled, mouth contorting. Jaime watched her set down the wine. “I am your _queen_. And I command you to –”

            “To chase a little girl around the Seven Kingdoms and bring her back so you can stick her head on a spike? Or, no, how did you put it? A wolf skin rug for your floors. I swore a vow to Catelyn Stark that I’d see her daughters safely back to Winterfell.”

            “You swore a vow to protect your king, and you stabbed him in the back.”

            As if he needed the reminder.

            “You’re Queensguard,” she said again, “and now your queen commands you to hunt down that bitch and bring her here, to me.”

            Jaime reached up with his one good hand, unclipping his white cloak and letting it drop to the floor. He turned.

            “No one walks away from me.”

            There was a tremor in Cersei’s voice. He hadn’t heard that kind of fear in her in years. He stopped, waiting, as she walked towards him. Her hands snaked across his chest from behind, her lips near his neck, not quite touching.

            “We’re the last of us. The last Lannisters. If it weren’t for the Starks, our children would still be alive. Our father might still be alive, if that little beast you call brother could stop himself. Do not walk away from me, Jaime.”

            “What did Arya Stark do to you, exactly? She taught Joff a lesson he needed to learn. She ran from the city when you let our son take Ned Stark’s head.” He pushed Cersei’s hand away, half-turning to face her. “I’m not about to go and murder an innocent girl. Especially not one I pledged to protect.”

            She stepped back from him, scornful, spinning back to her cup of wine. “Fine. Don’t go after her. I’ve got entire armies at my disposal. Do you think I won’t use them? I don’t need you to bring her to me.”

            He made towards the door.

            “Your pledges and vows mean nothing,” she hissed. “You should have named that sword Oathbreaker.”

            Perhaps.

            It was still a better name than Widow’s Wail.


	10. Chapter Nine – Family, Duty, Honour

They’d been permitted entry to Riverrun. Lord Edmure Tully ruled it now, with his Frey wife. There were trout everywhere.

            He’d even received them himself.

            “I never met my niece,” he said, scrutinising Anya, turning her head this way and that. “You could be her. You could not be.”

            She’d refused to wear the dresses they’d acquired for their Arya Stark double, and instead she wore her Braavosi trousers and had purloined one of Gendry’s shirts, cinching it around her tiny waist with her sword belt. The wind had picked up the closer they got to Riverrun, and it had rained on their way in, so she’d pulled on the cloak they’d bought, too, with its dark grey furs, clasped at her neck with a wolf pin.

            She didn’t look much like the lost princess. Seven hells, she barely looked like a _lady_.

            Gendry found himself wishing he’d all but forced one of the dresses over Anya’s head himself.

            “We’re travelling North, to Winterfell. Whether or not she’s Arya Stark is for the Queen in the North to decide,” said Davos. “If your lordship might provide us with a ship…”

            “Hand over one of my ships to a smuggler, a bastard, and a could-be imposter?” Edmure scoffed. “There are plenty of ships at Seagard. You can buy passage North on one of them.”

            “Aye, we could, if we had any gold left,” Davos went on. “It’s not cheap to acquire some papers to get out of the Capitol, and nor is it cheap to gather the supplies for a journey North. Or a wagon and a horse.”

            “I saw no wagon or horse when you entered my castle.”

            “We had some trouble along the road.”

            Edmure smiled, patronising, and it made Gendry’s blood boil. Edmure had been locked in the Freys’ dungeon for years after the events of the Red Wedding, but aside from that, he was a lord. A firstborn son of Lord Hoster Tully. He’d had everything in life handed to him on a silver platter.

            And yet he couldn’t give them a ship to take his niece home?

            Alright, granted, she was a nobody who fit the bill, who’d get them their reward. But _still_.

            “My lord, if –”

            “If she was Arya Stark, I think I’d have heard about this. I think the entire country would know that Arya Stark had been found alive and was going home. A silver direwolf pin and some furs won’t make some peasant girl into Arya Stark. I wish you good fortune in your endeavours, gentleman, my lady.”

            Edmure turned to leave, and Gendry shot a hopeless look at Davos.

            But it was Anya who strode forward, wrenching the lord around by his arm and staring up at him fiercely, jaw set. A few guards moved forward to restrain her, but Edmure raised a hand to pause them.

            “Family, duty, honour,” she said, the words clear and strong. “Those are the Tully words, aren’t they? Family, duty, honour. Family above all else.”

            Gendry half expected the lord to shove her to the ground, but instead, he laughed. It was quiet, and short, but a laugh nonetheless.

            “If you’re not her, you’re a damn good actress. You sound just like my sister.”

            “Maybe I’m not Arya Stark. But maybe I am. And what do you think my sister will say when I make my way to Winterfell and tell her our uncle turned me away and refused to help? What will the realm say of Edmure Tully when they find out he refused his long-lost niece? Do you think for one moment they’ll respect you or the Tullys ever again?”

            The words sent a chill down Gendry’s spine. For all they’d taught her about Arya Stark, he’d never expected this kind of regal command from little Anya. It was impressive, to say the least.

            “Family, duty, honour,” he repeated, and then held out his hand. Anya nodded brusquely, clasping his forearm. “I’ll see you’re given rooms and fed while I organise a ship.”

            “Thank you, Lord Edmure.”

            She turned back to Gendry and Davos, eyebrow arched, clearly smug. Gendry closed his mouth (not quite sure when it had fallen open) and tipped his head in almost a bow; she mock-curtseyed back at him in her trousers.

 

By the next morning they were on their way. Lord Edmure had some men escort them to Seagard – on horseback, which made a welcome change from walking – and even gave them a small purse of gold to make their way from the port at Torrhen’s Square to Winterfell.

            She continued to surprise him.

            Anya was quiet on their journey from Riverrun, and he rode slightly behind, watching Davos speak with her. They spoke too quietly for him to hear. A glimpse of Anya’s profile told him she didn’t look too happy, whatever it was.

            Almost as though she could sense him watching, she looked back.

            Gendry didn’t look away.

            After a while, Anya pulled her horse around, falling in beside him. She commanded her mare easily, with the lightest touches of the reins. She was almost careless about it; it was as natural to her as breathing, Gendry realised.

            “Where’d you learn to ride?” he asked her. She’d talked little of her time in Braavos, since she was eight years old, but he knew she’d trained with the Faceless Men as an assassin. They’d fought with poison, daggers, swords, though; Anya maintained she couldn’t remember ever using a bow and arrow before.

            She shrugged. “Before, I guess.”

            “I suppose it’s not the sort of thing you forget.”

            “Suppose not.”

            When she didn’t have anything to say, just chewed her lip, Gendry cleared his throat. “You were brilliant, back there. With Tully.”

            “What if we’re wrong, though?” she asked, facing him with wide, worried eyes. Was this what she’d been discussing with Davos? “What if I’m not her? And we’ve conned that poor man…”

            Gendry shifted, uncomfortable at how uncomfortable the notion made her. Especially given that he and Davos were trying to pull off the biggest con in history. “I wouldn’t call him poor, exactly.”

            Anya didn’t even smile at the joke.

            He tried again: “Alright, say you’re not her. At least he tried to help. He’s done his part. Did the _honourable_ thing. Did his _duty_.” He picked the words carefully, remembering how she’d used Lord Edmure’s own words against him. “You really feel that bad about it, turn around now. If you don’t think you’re up to it, save the Queen in the North the trouble, and save these men the hassle of escorting us to Seagard. Go home, Anya.”

            She began to protest, but the words fell flat, and she looked away.

            “Or you can suck it up and see this through to the end,” Gendry continued. “There’s nothing for you back there.”

            “That’s all I want,” she said softly, so softly he almost missed it. “Home.” Looking back at him, she asked, “You must miss King’s Landing.”

            “King’s Landing wasn’t my home. Especially not with the Lannisters around. It was just somewhere I lived.”

            “Don’t you want it, though? Home?”

            He wasn’t even sure what that meant.


	11. Chapter Ten – Princess, I’ve Found You At Last

The ship was flying Tully colours.

            Surely it was her. Edmure wouldn’t have granted some imposter passage on one of his own ships North, if he didn’t think it was her.

            Jaime pressed his horse on, dismounting nimbly and grabbing a nearby sailor. He’d reached out with his right hand, though, and the gold replacement hit the man’s shoulder hard. The man stumbled, winced, frowned at the hand; even though it was gloved, he seemed to realise just who was in front of him. The man’s mouth gaped, but he snapped it shut and gulped audibly as he raised his eyes to Jaime’s nose.

            Jaime almost scoffed. Did the sailor think he’d burn if he looked into the eyes of the Kingslayer?

            “Where’s your captain? I’d like to speak with him.”

            “I’ll – I’ll fetch him at once, Ser.”

            “No – take me to him. I’d rather not linger out here.”

            He didn’t want Arya Stark to flee before he got the chance to speak to her for himself. He’d skulked back, watching the ship load. He’d seen the small group leave the ship for the village, and chosen that moment to worm his way on board.

            Someone took his horse, and Jaime followed the sailor onto the ship and below decks. The captain was bent over maps, spread across his table, and scowled up at them.

            “What is it?”

            “It’s – Cap’n, uh…”

            Jaime stepped around the bumbling man, crossing the cabin in long and even strides. “Ser Jaime Lannister. I understand you’re going North. I’d like passage on your ship.”

            The captain narrowed his eyes. He didn’t seem to possess the same fear as his crewman: he stared Jaime right in the eyes, unflinching. The captain was old – older than he was: mostly bald, but what hair he did have was grey, and his beard was thick. His face was wrinkled and tanned, and bore no scars.

            “This is a merchant ship, Kingslayer. You’ll have to look elsewhere for travel North. A good horse should do you just fine.”

            “A merchant ship,” he repeated, nodding, eyes roaming around the cabin. He saw the captain shift, uncomfortable; he’d always been good at making lesser men feel so small. “Tell me, do your wares include the Princess of Winterfell? Or perhaps that’s a new name of wine from Highgarden you’re travelling.”

            The captain paled, visibly, but then his cheeks turned ruddy and he blustered, “Now, see here, ser, this ship is under the command and protection of Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun. What she’s carrying is no business of yours.”

            Jaime sighed. Toying with the man was fun, but he had more pressing issues. “Listen to me. My sister, the queen, will send the entire force of her armies after Arya Stark if she thinks the girl’s still alive. I swore a vow to her mother to protect her, and her sister. I plan to uphold that vow. I give you my word, I mean her no harm.”

            The captain obviously didn’t believe him, but Jaime barrelled on. “Now you can grant me passage on your ship, or you can refuse. But I must warn you – if you refuse, I’ll cut your throat. I will be on this ship with the Stark girl one way or another. Do I make myself clear?”

 

He waited, of course, until the ship was well out of the harbour, before going out on deck.

            The boy was clearly Robert’s son, he thought first. Tall, broad, strong, with the black hair of the Baratheon family. It wasn’t hard to imagine him caving the Mountain’s head in: Jaime remembered what a force to be reckoned with Robert was with his warhammer, once.

            And the girl –

            He only vaguely remembered Arya Stark. She’d been eight years old; what interest could a little girl possibly have had for him that would’ve caught his attention for more than a passing glance? What he did remember, though, was that she’d been small, and skinny, with brown hair like her father. While Sansa had more of the Tully look about her, Arya had been thoroughly Stark.

            The girl with Robert’s bastard was no longer eight years old, but she was skinny, and small – her head only came to the bastard’s chest – and she had short, ragged brown hair. She wore it half-up in a bun, as he’d seen Ned Stark do sometimes.

            If she was an imposter, she was a damn good one.

            The girl was wearing Braavosi clothes, marking her out as strange even if he hadn’t been looking for her. They were a drastic contrast to the greys and blues everyone else seemed to be wearing.

            The two of them spoke in low voices, their heads tipped close together, their faces turned out to the sea. They didn’t see him approaching, didn’t appear to hear him, either, until he stopped behind them, and cleared his throat.

            Arya – if she _was_ Arya – turned first, confusion settling on her face. The bastard looked to, and quick as lightning shoved her behind him, reaching for his sword.

            “What are you doing?” she cried out.

            “This is Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer.” The boy held the sword up, out at him. It was a clumsy hold, from someone who wasn’t used to swordfighting, but his face was determined. Jaime didn’t doubt the boy would try to run him through if he saw him as a real threat.

            “I hear you’re Arya Stark.”

            “How did you find us? What are you – have you come to kill her?”

            He glared for a second at the boy, dismissive and condescending, before focusing on the girl again.

            She was a _very_ good imposter, if she was. Her eyes were as brown as any Stark’s, even if they were wide and lost now.

            “Maybe,” she said. Her hand touched the bastard’s arm, and he lowered his sword slightly. Her head cocked to the side. “ _Have_ you come to kill me?”

            Jaime drew his sword. The bastard raised his again, and Arya drew hers – a blade as skinny as she was.

            The shock on their faces when he knelt was priceless.

            “Lady Arya, I came to offer you my sword. I will shield your back and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it, by the old gods and the new.”

            She looked at him for a while, and then at Robert’s bastard. To Jaime, eventually, she said, “Is this a joke?”

            “I can assure you it isn’t. When I was your brother’s prisoner after Whispering Wood, your mother freed me and sent me back to King’s Landing with the promise that I would return her daughters to her. She died before I got the chance, but I made a solemn vow to protect you and your sister. I sent Brienne of Tarth in my stead to watch over your sister. And now I’ve come to offer my services to you and fulfil my vow.”

            “What good is your vow?” the bastard scoffed. “You stabbed King Aerys, who you’d vowed to protect. How many kings died on your watch, Lannister?”

            “I did what I did to protect the people. Aerys would have burned down the entire Capitol with wildfire.”

            “Like your sister did, you mean, when she destroyed the Sept of Baelor?”

            Jaime bristled, jaw clenching. He’d suffered this judgement his entire life. He’d certainly suffered it enough from Robert and Ned Stark both; it set his teeth on edge to have Robert’s bastard son doing the very same thing now.

            “And now my sister commanded me to ride North and bring her back a wolf’s pelt for her floor and a stag head to decorate her wall. I'd be more than happy to take back the stag head, but I swore a vow to protect the Stark girls. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

            “How can you be sure I’m Arya Stark?” the girl asked him.

            “I can’t,” he confessed. “But if you’re not, I’ve no reason to kill you anyway.” His mouth twitched. “And I’m sure Lord Stag here wouldn’t be quite so protective of you if you weren’t her.”

            The boy’s ears turned red, but he ignored him.

            “Lady Arya, I offer you my sword. I will shield your back and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it, by the old gods and the new.”

            She stepped forwards. The bastard touched her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. The bastard sighed sharply, but said nothing. Quietly, she told Jaime, “I don’t know the words.”

            “Bugger the words,” he told her. “Yes will do.”

            “Then yes.”

            He stood, and sheathed his sword. “I hope you don’t keep that blade far from you when you sleep. My sister will have sent armies and mercenaries out after you. It’s almost a miracle you’ve made it this far.”

            “I can protect myself,” she said.

            “Aye. I hear you killed the Mountain, between you. Hammer, isn’t it? Your weapon of choice, boy?”

            “Gendry,” the boy snapped. “My name’s Gendry.”

            “Ours is the fury,” Jaime mulled over the words. “You’ve the Baratheon temper, I’ll give you that.”

            He saw the boy’s face contort, the muscles twitching with irritation, and swallowed a laugh. Best he didn’t provoke him too much – he didn’t much fancy joining the Mountain in one of the seven hells with _his_ head caved in, too.

            “Lady Arya –”

            Her face screwed up. “Please. Anya will do.”

            “Anya?”

            “I – well, I…” She chewed on the words a while. “It’s a long story.”

            “We’ve a long journey.”

            So she told him: that she was found wandering the Kingsroad when she was eight years old, with no memory of who she was or where she came from; she told him that she’d hidden on a ship to travel to Braavos, where she trained with the Faceless Men; she told him that she’d wanted to find home, and travelled back to the Capitol, where Gendry and Davos helped her come North, to reunite her with her sister.

            “You really don’t remember anything?”

            The girl shook her head. “Sometimes I dream of faces, of places and voices, but I can’t be sure if they’re even real. I don’t know if they’re memories or not. I don’t know who I am. But I’m hoping Sansa Stark can tell me.”

            “And if you’re not?”

            She shrugged, looking away. Gendry had left them alone, though he and the Onion Knight were sat not too far away. “I haven’t planned that part out yet.”

            “I remember Eddard Stark well. I didn’t much like him, but I respected him. You look like him.”

            “I do?”

            She seemed relieved to hear it, and Jaime felt a sudden rush of compassion for her. This poor girl, who had no idea who she was, who probably had a family waiting to welcome her home… If that had been Myrcella…

            “I don’t know if I’m really her,” she admitted again, “but the Queen in the North will know. We just have to get past Lady Brienne, first. Gendry and Davos say nobody gets near Sansa Stark anymore without going through Brienne first.”

            Jaime smiled. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”


	12. Chapter Eleven – A Nice Oak Tree

“I got you a dress.”

            Anya laughed, lifting the skirts. “You got me a tent.”

            “It’s a damn sight colder in the North than it was in the Riverlands, and that dress Ros gave you won’t do you any good. This was the best they had in that village.”

            Anya took the dress, rolling her eyes and shooing him away.

            Gods, but it was _awful_. The most awful dress she’d ever seen. It hung awkwardly on her small frame, and made her look the most ridiculous… Oh, but it was _terrible_. All browns and greens and patterned with leaves and acorns.

            It was thoughtful, and it was warm, but –

            “I look like an oak tree, with all these stupid acorns.”

            Gendry was trying hard not to laugh at her when she opened her door to show him. “Nice, though. A nice oak tree.”

            She swung a hand at his arm, but he only laughed, reaching around to tackle her, pinning her arms to her sides from behind and lifting her with ease. Anya shrieked, wriggled, twisting until she squirmed loose and dropping onto all fours before headbutting his stomach. Again, he only laughed, and her temper flared. She was a _trained assassin_. She’d _killed_ men. And here he was, stupid bull-headed boy, acting as though she were little more than a fly, an irritation. When he caught her arms again, he moved both her wrists to one of his large hands, the other reaching to tickle her.

            Anya slammed a leg between his legs and he dropped her, both of them tripping over each other and collapsing to the floor of the cabin.

            The sleeve of her dress had torn, and she found herself poking her tongue out at him. “Bet I don’t look so nice now.”

            Gendry lay back, hands across his stomach, head thrown back in laughter. His blue eyes creased around the corners, his smile practically from ear to ear. He’d shaved since she saw him earlier that day, when Jaime Lannister had introduced himself.

            He looked good, Anya thought.

            And then, abruptly, she sat up. She wasn’t bothered for all that. She was only trying to find her family. That was all.

            “Sorry I ruined it,” she said, gesturing to the torn sleeve. “But I don’t know that there was much to ruin. It’s awful. Truly.”

            “A thousand apologies, my lady, I’ll have the seamstresses work around the clock to make something that better suits your wants.”

            “You think you’re so funny.”

            “I know I am.”

            She scoffed, trying to think of another comeback.

            Gendry got there first, but it wasn’t teasing. He propped himself up on his elbows, head cocked. “Do you trust him?”

            “What?”

            “Jaime Lannister. You trust him?”

            “If he wanted to kill me, wouldn’t he have already done it? He’d have cut you down and then me. Or else he’d have done it after you left. But he didn’t. He says he just wants to fulfil his vow to my mother. Or – Arya’s mother.”

            “ _Your_ mother,” he said, as Anya’s gut twisted. She still wasn’t convinced, even if he and Davos and even Jaime fucking Lannister all were. “He’s famous for killing the king he vowed to protect.”

            “People change.”

            “Aye,” he said, looking away. “I suppose they do.”

            Then he sighed, climbing to his feet, and offered Anya a hand. She didn’t need it, but she took it.

            On deck, someone was singing.

            _“My featherbed is deep and soft,_

_and there I’ll lay you down,_

_I’ll dress you all in yellow silk,_

_and on your head a crown._

_For you shall be my lady love,_

_and I shall be your lord;_

_I’ll always keep you warm and safe,_

_and guard you with my sword._

_And how she smiled and how she laughed,_

_the maiden of the tree._

_She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me._

_I’ll wear a crown of golden leaves,_

_and bind my hair with grass,_

_but you can be my forest love,_

_and me your forest lass.”_

            Anya listened. It was a pretty song. She’d never heard it before, but she decided she liked it. She couldn’t remember ever really liking the songs they sang – of knights and dragons, Jonquil and even The Rains of Castamere. But this one, she liked.

            Gendry startled her by taking her hand – she half thought he’d try to wrestle her again, but instead he drew her forward, to an open space on deck. He stopped, standing in front of her.

            “What are you doing?”

            “Seems to me Lady Arya Stark, Princess of the North, should know how to dance.” There was a glimmer in his eyes, teasing in his voice, but his expression was deadly serious. He put her left hand on his shoulder, took her right in his, and his right hand settled on her waist. Her skin seemed to burn where he touched her, and Anya fought down a blush, gritting her teeth instead. The singer kept signing. Anya stepped.

            “No, you’re supposed to let me lead.”

            “Oh.”

            She stopped; then Gendry stepped, Anya following.

            She didn’t know where to look. The singer? The sea? The crew moving about the boat?

            Her eyes settled on his, suddenly such a serious blue, and she swallowed; it sounded loud. Had he heard it? Her ears seemed to ring behind the singer’s voice, and the world dissolved around her until it was only the two of them, her following his movements, skin burning against his and nerves crackling like embers off a fire.

            The dress didn’t feel stupid anymore: it made her feel graceful. It made her feel like the kind of girl who danced with boys who looked at her like Gendry was looking at her now.

            “I’m feeling a little… dizzy.”

            Dizzy wasn’t the right word for it, but she couldn’t figure out what was.

            “Kind of light-headed?” She blinked at him, trying to pull out words, not sure when they’d deserted her and left her dumb. Gendry’s movements slowed, Anya’s matching his, until he stopped. His voice was quiet. “Me too. Probably from spinning.” He lowered their hands between them, and Anya was aware of every inch between them – aware of how close they were and everywhere they weren’t touching. “Maybe we should stop.”

            “We have stopped,” she breathed back.

            A flash of something crossed his face, but she wasn’t sure what. Confusion, maybe, or discomfort. It was hard to tell when it was gone so quickly. “Anya, I –”

            “Yes?”

            Gendry’s body leaned closer to hers; his head tilted, and Anya mirrored his actions without even thinking about it, her lips parting slightly. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

            Somewhere, Jaime Lannister cleared his throat.

            She didn’t have to see Gendry draw away; she felt the absence of the warmth of his body as he put space between them, stepping widely back. She opened her eyed again to see his lips drawn into a thin line.

            Clumsily, he patted her hand. “You’re doing fine,” he told her, voice strangely distant, and then he walked away, leaving Anya turning after him, hand still outstretched, lips still parted.

            She was a damned fool, she knew it; but that didn’t stop her from wishing he’d kissed her.


	13. Chapter Twelve – In The Dark Of The Night

Lannister was stood over him, kicking him awake. Gendry had somehow drawn the short straw: between Anya, the one-handed lion, and the old man, he’d ended up sleeping on the floor. It was pitch dark, but Lannister was kicking him in the side.

            “Get up. She’s gone.”

            “What –”

            The Kingslayer was already moving, striding out of their cabin, sword drawn, and Gendry cursed, scrambling after him, reaching for his hammer. Davos muttered as his sleep was disturbed, leaning over his bunk.

            “Anya’s gone,” Gendry told him, and then he was gone too, hurrying out the door and after Lannister.

            It was raining.

            The rain lashed at the deck of the ship, the wind snarled in the sails, and the boat seemed to pitch side to side more furiously up here than it had from their cabin.

            Lannister raised a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the rain, looking around. Gendry looked too, twisting frantically. Where would she even go? And why?

            Was it because of him?

            Because he’d danced with her like that? Because he’d almost kissed her?

            He’d been a damned fool, and he shouldn’t have done it, but surely she wouldn’t try to run away just because of that?

            And she had nowhere to run, not while they were still on this ship.

            Then he saw her, and grabbed at Lannister’s arm to make him follow.

            “Anya! Anya!”

            She stood on the edge of the ship, one hand loose around a rope, swaying dangerously. Gendry’s heart leapt to his throat. If she throws herself overboard, it’s all my fault. If she dies, it’s all my fault.

            Over the wind, the unmistakeable sound of her giggling, and then she waved.

            “What –?” Jaime Lannister didn’t finish his sentence. Gendry ran forwards, grabbing her around the waist and yanking her backwards onto the deck. Anya writched against him, kicking, and his head knocked back onto the floor, dazing him, but he rolled until he was on top of her, pinning her down, and watched her blinking, the fury seeping from her face and fear into her eyes.

            Gendry scrambled off her, letting her sit up.

            “You were sleepwalking,” he said.

            “I…” She shook her head, shivering suddenly, knees curling up under her chin. Her nightdress was soaked through. He tried not to notice that it was see-through now, too. The Kingslayer stepped forward, removing his coat to wrap around her shoulders.

            “We should get you below deck.”

            Anya nodded, eyes drifting, face slack, and she let Lannister help her up. Her feet tripped over each other as they went back below deck. She looked back at Gendry, mouth hanging open, eyes wide and unsure.

            He followed.

            After sitting her down on her bottom bunk, below Davos, Lannister said, “I’ll go see if I can’t wake the ship’s cook, get you some hot tea.”

            Once he’d gone, Anya looked at him. Her lower lip trembled.

            She was cold, he realised, and grabbed his own blanket to wrap around her shoulders. Starks might be built for the frozen wastelands of the North, but this was only Anya, who’d spent ten years South, in Braavos.

            He knelt in front of her, tucking the wool blanket tight around her, and her hand shot out to his. When he looked up at her face, her eyes were full.

            He’d seen girls cry, before, but there was something to infinitely broken in her that moment that it shocked him to his core. Her fingers tightened around his. “I saw them. We were swimming in the wood by the Heart Tree.”

            Gendry didn’t say anything, because he didn’t have anything to say.

            Anya bit her lip so hard he thought she’d draw blood. “I know it sounds ridiculous, and stupid, but I was so sure I was there. It felt so real.”

            “It was just a dream,” he said, floundering for words to comfort her. “It’s over now.”

            “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

            “Shh.” He did the only thing he could do at that moment and moved to sit beside her on the bed, drawing his arms around her. “It’s alright. You’re safe now.”

            She sniffled, hand gripping his fingers tighter. He stopped himself from pressing a kiss to her temple. He only wanted to comfort her, but part of him knew it was the wrong thing to do. Especially after he’d almost kissed her earlier.

            Gods, how could he let himself get so carried away?

            He was going to hand her to Sansa Stark, take his reward, and move to Pentos where he’d live a life of luxury until the end of his days. He’d be little better than his father, drinking and whoring his life away, but it had to be better than scraping by in King’s Landing, selling steel to Lannister guards and hiding from them on the odd occasion they were sent looking for Gendry Baratheon, King Robert’s last living bastard.

            He was not about to get attached to this girl.

            (And he was loathe to admit to himself that it might already be too late for that.)

            When Jaime Lannister returned, shouldering the door open with his amputated arm and carrying a steaming cup in the other, Anya quickly let go of Gendry’s hand, shuffling an inch or two away from him.

            Lannister shot him a look – not cruelly, but wary, and Gendry ignored him, told Anya he hoped she slept well, and returned to his spot on the floor. He was soaked through, too, and now he’d given his blanket away, but he turned on his side and closed his eyes, pretending to sleep.

            “I think he likes you, you know,” Jaime Lannister mumbled, after a while. Anya scoffed. “I see the way he looks at you.”

            “He doesn’t look at me like anything.”

            “I’ve seen you looking at him, too.”

            “You’re old, Kingslayer. Your eyes don’t work.”

            Gendry’s eyebrows shot up before he could stop himself, but neither of them saw; he was turned away. Instead of being offended, Jaime Lannister chuckled quietly. How Anya could get away with speaking to lords and knights like that, he’d never know.

            Of course, he reminded himself, they did all think she was Arya Stark. That held some weight.

            Jaime Lannister went to his cot on the other side of the cabin. Anya’s blankets rustled against each other as she lay down.

            When Anya gave a quiet sob, muffled into her pillow, a long while later, Gendry wanted to get up. He wanted to get up and wrap his arms around her, hold her close and stroke her ragged hair and tell her everything would be alright.

            He didn’t.

            Because she wasn’t Anya. She was, for all intents and purposes, Arya Stark of Winterfell. Not his Anya.

 


	14. Chapter Thirteen – Never Should Have Let Them Dance

Anya and Lannister rode ahead. Davos watched them talking. It didn’t sit well with him that they suddenly had Jaime Lannister, of all people, for company, but if he’d wanted to kill them, they’d be long dead already.

            Gendry rode beside him, dour and sour.

            If Davos didn’t know better, he’d say the lad was jealous.

            But he did know better: and the lad was jealous.

            It was almost laughable.

            He and Gendry had known each other for years, ever since he’d set him free from the Red Woman and then found him years later back in King’s Landing. He knew Gendry, and he knew he’d never looked at a woman the way he looked at Anya.

            “What do you think of her?” he asked the blacksmith, looking ahead.

            “Who?”

            As if there was any other ‘her’ they might be talking about. Davos arched an eyebrow at the boy, replying loftily, “I believe you know of whom I speak.”

            Gendry looked ahead. “I think she has a good heart.”

            “A good heart?” he repeated, trying not to laugh. “I’ve noticed you staring at her good heart.”

            Gendry shifted on his horse; Davos could practically hear his teeth grinding to stubs from feet away. “There’s no place for that. We’re here for one reason, and one reason only: to get the reward for Arya Stark’s safe return to her sister. Not for anything else.”

            “Then you’d better watch yourself,” Davos jested, “you look at her good heart any more and the Kingslayer might just gouge your eyes out.”

            Gendry’s mouth twisted, unimpressed with the joke, and he spurred his horse on, away from Davos but not quite beside Anya and Lannister.

            He’d had his suspicions ever since Anya had walked into their little studio in the brothel, and had seen it immediately when they’d danced a few nights ago.

            Even in that bloody acorn dress the boy had picked out for her, she’d been radiant, and confident. She may not be Arya Stark, but she was born to take the chance that she was. They’d taught her well, too: she’d bloody well convinced both Edmure Tully and Jaime Lannister that she was the real thing.

            They’d planned everything, coached her on every question they knew Brienne of Tarth would ask her before letting her meet the Queen in the North.

            He hadn’t planned for this, though.

            He hadn’t banked on either of them falling in love with each other.

            Especially when Anya would have a family of wolves, soon, a home in a castle, and he and Gendry would be on their way with a chest full of gold, never to see her again.

            It’d break their hearts.

            He’d seen it happening, watched them bicker and tease each other, unable to miss the looks they exchanged or the way they looked at each other when the other wasn’t looking. And when they’d danced, he’d known they were both lost. It was only Lannister coughing that stopped them kissing.

            He cared for the lad, and he’d come to care for Anya, too. He had a soft spot for lost children and broken souls. They’d be at Winterfell within the day, and soon after, they’d both be heartbroken.

            He should have stopped it. 

            He never should have let them dance.


	15. Chapter Fourteen – No More

Sansa stood, moving to the window. “No more, Breinne. No more.”

            “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she said, and she meant it. “I truly thought it was her this time. She’d answered every question…”

            “I know, I know – it’s not your fault,” Sansa said quickly, turning back with a fleeting smile; but only fleeting. There was no hiding the sadness in her face, that sunk deep in her eyes. She was still so young, but the pain of trying to find her sister – the pain of her hopes being dashed every time – seemed to age her.

            “I can’t do this anymore,” she told Brienne. “I won’t see any more of them. Imposters and lookalikes and conniving fools all pretending to be her… I won’t do it anymore. I’ve seen enough Arya Starks to last me a lifetime.”

            Ever since Arya Stark had fled the Capitol when their father was beheaded, Sansa had been wondering where she’d gone. Brienne had tried to find her, too; Jaime Lannister had given her armour and a sword and a squire she still maintained she didn’t need to find and protect the Stark girls.

            She’d only ever fulfilled half that vow. When Sansa had become Queen in the North, she’d put out word that she was looking for her sister, that there was a reward for her safe return. Jon hadn’t been convinced, and neither had Brienne, but they’d both let Sansa go ahead with it.

            And Arya Starks had poured in from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, and beyond.

            Some had a strong Northern accent, and bore some resemblance to Eddard Stark’s youngest daughter. Others had been from Volantis, speaking only broken phrases of the Common Tongue; one had been blonde, but insisted she was the real thing; some had Tully colouring and were convinced that was good enough.

            Each time Brienne thought they’d found her, it never was her. It broke Sansa’s heart a little more each time.

            Jon had given up hope years ago.

            “Bran can’t find her in any of his visions, Sansa,” he’d say. “Face it – she’s gone. We’re never getting her back. She’ll be with Rickon and Robb, and Father, and your mother.”

            Brandon had been able to see how she’d escaped King’s Landing, but little further. There was nothing of her he could find to see after that.

            If she was alive, Jon reasoned, he’d be able to see her.

            “That’s not the way the visions work,” Bran argued, and Brienne knew that was all the hope Sansa needed to keep looking for her sister. Brienne had taken Podrick and toured every inch of the North looking for her, had gone all the way across the Seven Kingdoms searching, but they’d never found anything.

            Now, it seemed, Sansa had given up.

            Her heart was too broken to keep trying.

            “My lady –”

            “Please. I just want to be alone for a while.”

            Brienne bowed, and left her to grieve. This was enough: her lady had said so, and she agreed. Sansa couldn’t go through this any more. Arya Stark’s ghost should be laid to rest to be remembered fondly by her siblings, and a tomb carved for her in the crypts even if they had no bones to fill it.

            On her way to the training yard, a servant chased up to her. “My lady, there’s someone here to see you.”

            “The Queen will see no more girls claiming to be Arya Stark,” Brienne told the boy.

            “It’s… My lady, it’s not Arya Stark.”

            “Then who is it?”

            The boy looked away, uncomfortable, unsure, but eventually spat out, “It’s the Kingslayer.”

 

By the old gods and the new, it was.

            Brienne hadn’t seen him in years.

            He was still handsome, even though his golden hair was thinner and shot with grey. He’d grown a beard, darker than the rest of his hair. His golden hand was gloved in leather.

            And he hadn’t come alone.

            Ser Davos Seaworth, she recognised. She didn’t know the black-haired young man with him, and a girl hunched small on a horse behind them in a grey cloak trimmed with fur, the hood pulled low over her head.

            Jaime dismounted; the movement was easy. He’d clearly grown used to only having one hand. She noticed the gold lion’s pommel on the sword at his side, a sword that twinned her own.

            “Ser Jaime.” She greeted him formally; it had been years, after all.

            But Jaime broke into a wide smile. “Brienne the Beauty. You’ve hardly changed since last I saw you.”

            She flushed at the name. It had been years since anybody had used it against her, too; though she knew he wasn’t mocking her. It was a jest. It was friendly. She smiled back at him.

            “It’s good to see you again, Brienne,” he told her, voice low and earnest.

            It made her realise just how much she'd missed him.

            “What are you doing so far North? And Ser Davos,” she called out, “it’s been a long time. The King will be pleased to see you. If we’d received word that you were coming –”

            “Apologies, my lady, for the intrusion,” Davos said, handing his garron to a stableboy and walking forwards. He clasped Brienne’s hand in greeting. “It’s not a particularly social call.”

            Davos turned, beckoning to the young couple behind him. The boy was trying to help the girl down from her horse, and Brienne caught a scowl beneath her hood as she batted him away, barking, “I can get off my own horse, you idiot.”

            They came over, the boy looking uncomfortable, the girl’s head bowed under her hood. There was a silver direwolf pin in the neck of her cloak, keeping it closed as the wind buffeted at it lightly.

            “Lady Brienne,” said Jaime, stepping aside and gesturing out with his arm, “may I present Arya Stark.”

            Brienne stepped back a little. Hadn’t she just heard that there were to be no more? Hadn’t she just seen the heartbreak plain as day on her lady’s face? Hadn’t she just sworn to herself that enough was enough, Arya Stark was dead and should be left to rest, wherever her bones were now?

            But Jaime – he wouldn’t lie, not to her. Would he? And Davos had always been trustworthy; Jon had wanted him for his Hand.

            Jaime certainly didn’t need the reward money.

            “Not here,” Brienne said quickly, eyes darting about. “Come inside. We’ll discuss this there.”

            She led them to an empty room. It was where she usually greeted their fake Arya Starks; there was still refreshment and cups from the last girl she’d seen, only an hour ago. The fire still crackled in the hearth.

            Brienne gestured to the benches and chairs, watching them sit. The boy walked to stand near the hearth, warming his hands.

            The girl finally dropped her hood.

            Brienne caught her breath, for only a moment. The girl was the image of how they thought Arya would look. Grey eyes, Jon’s dark hair, not a glimpse of Tully red or auburn. She was small, features sharp, and skinny as a broom. Brienne spied trousers beneath her cloak, too.

            “May I offer you some wine?” Brienne asked the group.

            “I’ll do it,” Jaime said, standing before she could, beginning to pour.

            “Got any ale?” the girl asked. Her accent was a little strange, but distinctly Northern.

            “I can ask for some,” Brienne said, and moved to the door to call for a servant to bring some ale. She waited until it was brought. Davos and Jaime nursed cups of wine, and the girl gulped down half the tankard. Brienne didn’t touch any of the drink herself, and nor did the boy.

            “I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted, but finally settled on Jaime. “I thought you were serving as commander of your sister’s armies, in King’s Landing.”

            “I was. Until she heard that Arya Stark had been found, slipped through the city gates, and was making her way to Winterfell. She sent me to kill her.”

            “And yet here you are.”

            “Keeping my oath.”

            She smiled, looking away for a moment, recalling a lifetime ago when they’d bathed at Harrenhall and he’d been feverish, talking about the day he’d killed Aerys. She thought about the look on his face when she told him her sword was called Oathkeeper, for him.

            “Davos and the bastard helped her out of King’s Landing. Edmure Tully gave them passage on a ship, and I joined them.”

            “Lord Edmure?”

            If Sansa’s uncle had given them passage North, he must have believed she was Arya Stark too. And she couldn’t imagine Jaime travelling all the way to Winterfell for some imposter, not unless he truly believed it was her.

            Then she turned to the boy. “Forgive me, ser, but I don’t know you.”

            “I’m not a knight,” said the boy, even though it had only been a courtesy. His voice and accent were rough. Lowborn. “My name’s Gendry Waters.”

            Waters, she thought. A bastard.

            Strange company for Arya Stark, Jaime Lannister and Davos Seaworth to keep, she thought.

            “Robert Baratheon’s bastard,” he added. “I knew Ned Stark. He came to visit me, when he was Hand of the King.”

            “I see.”

            Even stranger company, she thought.

            And then, finally, she had to turn to the girl. The girl looked back at her, face set, eyes a little nervous.

            “It’s Arya Stark,” Gendry told her. “She’s her. And we’ve brought her home.”

            “Maybe,” Brienne acknowledged. “But – I’m sorry, no – Lady Sansa has insisted she won’t see any more girls claiming to be Arya Stark. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

            “Please. Brienne.”

            Jaime’s hand clasped hers, just above her wrist, his eyes earnest.

            “You’ve got questions to ask, don’t you?” Davos said brusquely, sitting up straighter. “Ask them. Go on. She’ll answer every one of them.”

            And so she might, Brienne thought. But she still might not be Arya Stark.

 

 


	16. Chapter Fifteen – No More Pretend

Gendry paced by the fire while Brienne asked her questions. She was methodical, precise. Anya’s answers were a little clumsy, but for the most part, sure of themselves.

            Brienne asked about her family tree, her House’s history, her knowledge of other houses and the Seven Kingdoms and its history. They were questions anyone might have been able to answer if they’d researched Arya Stark thoroughly enough, and knew their Westerosi history.

            She asked where Anya had been all these years.

            “In Braavos, training,” she said.

            “Why didn’t you come home?”

            “I didn’t know I could.”

            Gendry was a little relieved she didn’t explain her whole story. Suddenly, the whole thing seemed so impossible, so farfetched, that he worried Brienne would laugh at them and tell them to go back to King’s Landing.

            He was also suddenly glad the Kingslayer had joined them: he seemed to be the reason Brienne had sat to talk with them at all, and not just turned them away.

            It seemed to go on for hours, the interrogation, the answers.

            But eventually, Brienne said, “I have one last question for you. Forgive me if it’s… impertinent, but indulge me. For my lady’s sake.” Then, taking a deep breath, she asked, “How did you escape King’s Landing after your father was arrested for treason?”

            Gendry cursed himself silently, leaning his elbow onto the mantelpiece of the fire and his forehead into his knuckles.

            He knew. He bloody knew how. And he’d not told her.

            This hadn’t been one of the questions Brienne was supposed to ask. She wasn’t supposed to ask it so people wouldn’t be able to guess: if a thousand girls gave different answers and they were all wrong, people would know a thousand answers not to give. Brienne wasn’t supposed to ask how Arya Stark escaped.

            And he bloody knew.

            But Anya was speaking, her voice distant. “There was a boy… with a hammer. I… There was a man, from the Night’s Watch. He cut my hair off and took me out of the city. The Gold Cloaks came after us and… the boy told me to run.”

            Gendry looked up, his movements seeming to go as slowly as if he were trapped in a dream, as he looked over at Anya. Her expression was faraway, trying to remember, her face soft with it.

            Seven fucking hells.

            That scrawny highborn girl he’d laughed at, teased, the one who’d shoved him to the ground when he called her _my lady._ The girl who told him she was Lord Eddard’s daughter, with her skinny little castle-forged steel sword she called Needle. The one he’d defended from the Gold Cloaks because surely, they had to have come for her? And he’d swung his hammer, told her to run.

            He hadn’t told her that. He’d never told anybody about it. Not even Davos.

            It was her.

            Then she seemed to return to herself, and laughed. “I’m sorry, that – it sounds ridiculous, I know. The Night’s Watch doesn’t take girls, everybody knows that.”

            Brienne sighed, and sat back.

            “Well?” Davos asked, standing. Even Jaime Lannister seemed tense.

            “Well,” Brienne repeated, “she answered every question…”

            Davos laughed, gleeful, wrenching Anya to her feet and clasping her by the shoulders. “You hear that, child? You’ve done it!”

            Brienne stood, her face solemn. “I’m sorry, but… I don’t know that there’s anything I can do. The Queen said she won’t see any more Arya Starks. I can talk to her, but I can’t promise. Would you all please wait here?”

            “Of course,” Jaime agreed, without hesitation. Gendry was bristling, though.

            She was Arya Stark. The real Arya Stark. Not some nobody they’d filched from King’s Landing and tricked. She was real, and now this might be the end of the road?

            But Brienne had gone before he could protest, and he grabbed Davos by the sleeve, jerking him outside the room into a corridor.

            Davos was beaming. “We’ve done it, lad. She believed every word of it. We’ll be on a ship to Pentos by dawn, I tell you.”

            “No – no, Davos – wait, listen.” Gendry tripped over his words before stopping himself to draw a breath, steady himself. “She’s the real thing, Davos. That stuff she said about the boy and the Night’s Watch – I was the boy. We went North with Yoren, and she was all dressed as a boy. He was going to drop her off at Winterfell, but the Gold Cloaks came looking instead. I told her to run. I was the boy.”

            Davos looked at him for a long moment, the realisation crawling through every wrinkle and line of his face, his mouth turning slack. He looked back towards the door, with Anya behind it.

            “Then that means… our Anya… has found her family.”

            “Aye,” Gendry said, the thought settling like a stone in the pit of his stomach, “it does.”

 

Sansa Stark wouldn’t see them. Brienne had found them rooms, to rest for the night, but they’d have to leave in the morning. She apologised, over and over, but the Queen in the North refused to see them. Jon was out, hunting, they were told; but Davos was welcome to stay, if he liked, until Jon returned.

            But Sansa Stark would have no more Arya impersonators under her roof.

            He saw the dismay in Anya’s face, but he was too angry for all of that. Too angry to placate her. Not when she was this close.

            He had to do something about it.

            “She won’t see you,” Brienne said eventually, “but she’s in the crypts.”

            The words were left hanging in the air between them all, and Gendry grabbed Anya by the arm, jerking her towards the door. “Come on.”

            “But we can’t –”

            He stopped, turning to face her. “You’ve come this far. She’s only got to see you, and she’ll know. Are you going to just pass this opportunity up and go back to being no one?”

            His words must have struck a chord with her, because she nodded, and followed him through the door. The crypts were easy enough to find.

            It was snowing.

            Gendry wasn’t used to snow.

            It looked nice, in her hair.

            “Wait here,” he said quietly, at the bottom of the crypt steps. Torches flickered in their brackets on the wall, silhouetting a tall woman further down. Gendry approached on light feet. As he drew closer he could make out her pale face and red hair, and the fancy embroidery of his dress. It was an empty, unmarked tomb she stood in front of.

            Better play nice with this one, he decided. You didn’t make demands of the Queen in the North.

            “Your Grace.”

            She turned, startled, confused, and Gendry dropped to one knee. “What is this? Who are you?”

            “My name is Gendry Waters, Your Grace. I’m Robert Baratheon’s bastard son. Our fathers were close friends, once. I know what you told Lady Brienne, but if you’ll permit me, I’d like to introduce you to Arya Stark, the Lost Princess of Winterfell.”

            Sansa looked at him a moment with piercing, hardened eyes. There were chains across her dress, wrapping around her delicately. It made it look more like armour. “I’ve seen enough Arya Starks to last me a lifetime. Now if you’ll excuse me, I wish to grieve for my sister in peace.”

            He wasn’t deterred, and stood to move closer. “Your Grace, please. I was with your sister when she left King’s Landing –”

            Her laugh was dry. “That’s a new one, I must say.”

            “If you’ll only –”

            “I know what you’re after. I’ve seen it before. Men who train young women as a lady, train her to use a Northern accent. I don’t care how much you’ve fashioned this girl to sound like her, look like her or act like her. In the end, it never is her.”

            “But this time it _is_ her. Your Grace –”

            He made the mistake of reaching to grab her arm, desperate for her to understand. She had to see Anya, because Anya was the real thing, and Anya had only wanted to find her family. He wanted that for her.

            But Sansa Stark’s eyes were blue ice.

            “Gendry Waters. I’ve heard of you. You’re that conman from King’s Landing, the one who was holding auditions to find an Arya Stark lookalike to train up and coach, and trade for the reward money.”

            “No, Your Grace –”

            “So that wasn’t true? Is that what you’re telling me?”

            “Not exactly – I mean, it was true, but –”

            She sneered, but there was a lot of hurt in that sneer. It wasn’t heartless: it was full of heartbreak and loss. He recognised that all too well, from Anya’s face. “Get out of my sight, before I have the guards lock you in the cells and you lose your head for treason. Do you think I care if our fathers were friends, once? They’re both dead, now. And my sister with them.”

            “No – Your Grace, please, you have to believe me –”

            “Guards!” she cried, and again, “Guards!”

            “I promise, it’s her! If you just meet with her, you’ll see!” But guards had run in, wrenched his arms behind his back, and were dragging him out of the crypts, Sansa Stark refusing to hear his determined shouts.

            From the bottom of the steps, where he could only see her silhouette again, he saw Sansa Stark fall to her knees, hands in her face.

            And Anya was gone.


	17. Chapter Sixteen – Burning Dim As An Ember

“You lied to me.”

            This boy, this devastatingly handsome bastard blacksmith, who’d told her she was Arya Stark and he’d take her home to her family – he’d lied to her, this entire time. For money.

            Gendry stood to grip the bars of his cell, pressing his face through to look at her; his brow was pulled taut with a frown that lined his entire face, and she couldn’t bear to look at him, scoffing as she looked away. He was such a good liar. All that hurt and sincerity in his face right now – it was just another lie.

            When he’d almost kissed her, when he’d comforted her… Had that been a lie too?

            “You _lied_ to me.”

            “I swear, Anya, it wasn’t like that. I mean – it was at first, but – but what you said, about the boy and the Night’s Watch –”

            “I don’t know what I was thinking, trusting you! And that – that was – was…” She shook her head, hands trembling as she balled them into fists.

            The more she’d thought about Arya Stark in these past weeks, the more things she felt she remembered. Like when she’d dreamed about jumping into hot springs in a snowy forest with her siblings. She dreamt of faces she didn’t know and family she didn’t remember, and it had all started to seem real. She’d even thought she remembered Ned Stark up on a platform outside the Sept of Baelor before she was dragged away to get her hair shorn off with a knife and carted along with the Night’s Watch, where a boy with dark hair and rough hands helped her onto a wagon.

            Anya shook her head again, still trembling; and that had nothing to do with the cold.

            Oddly enough, she liked the cold.

            “You used me. I was just part of your con to get her money.”

            She hated how betrayed she sounded.

            “No! No, no!” he insisted, but she shook her head, bit her lip, glared down at her feet. “Look, it may have started out that way, but everything’s different now, because you really _are_ Arya Stark. You are!”

            “Oh stop it!” she barked, wrenching her hands away from the bars when his fingers brushed over her knuckles. “From the very beginning, you lied! And I not only believed you I actually –” She cut herself off, groaning.

            How could she have been so stupid?

            “Anya, please, listen to me! What you said, about the boy –”

            “No!” He reached through the bars for her arm, and she tore it away. “I don’t want to hear about anything that I said or remembered. I never want to see you again.”

            “Anya –”

            She stepped back, away from his cell, taking one last look before she stormed away.

            “Anya, please, you have to know the truth –”

            The truth was that she was no one, and that was all she’d ever be.

 

Somehow, she found herself in the Godswood. Her feet had carried her from the dungeons and now her feet crunched through the snow to the Heart Tree.

            There was someone sat beneath it, hood up, and they turned at the sound of someone. A long, pale, pretty face looked up at her. There was red hair under her blue cloak. There was something familiar, too, but maybe it was only that the Queen in the North looked exactly as she imagined she would.

            Anya thought she’d seen the face before, but it was like any other memory she tried to dredge up from before: so distant and buried it was useless.

            Anya’s steps faltered. “Oh. Your Grace, I’m sorry, I – I didn’t mean to intrude, I… Excuse me.”

            “No, stop.”

            Anya stopped backing away and stopped, waiting as the Queen in the North rose gracefully to her feet and walked towards her. Slowly, she circled Anya, like Gendry had back in King’s Landing.

            “You look the part, I’ll give you that.”

            “I’m sorry, Your Grace, I – I had no idea. About the con. The reward money.”

            “No?” Sansa Stark lifted her chin.

            “I swear it, by the old gods and the new. I just… I just wanted to find my family. If I have a family.”

            Sansa met her eyes for a long moment before nodding. “Alright. Sit with me.”

            “I don’t want to disturb your prayer –”

            “You won’t. Sit.”

            So she did. They sat side by side, knees angled toward each other, beneath the Heart Tree as it wept red, the leaves like blood above them. Sansa lowered her hood. “Brienne said you know how my sister escaped King’s Landing. My brother, Bran – he has visions. He’s seen our sister escape King’s Landing, and the Gold Cloaks.”

            “If he has visions, can’t he see where she is now?” Her words were blunt, rude, but the queen didn’t seem to mind. She smiled, fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on her sleeve.

            “He tells me that’s not how the visions work. When he looks for our sister, he sees her flee the Gold Cloaks, and then… nothing. Every time he tries to look for her, there’s nothing. No one.”

            Anya nodded, only more confused.

            “So tell me. I’ll humour you, since you look so much like her. And sound like her, too. And since you apparently know exactly how she escaped.”

            Anya told her, what little she remembered, what she thought she recalled. She told her about the boy with his hammer who found out she was a lady that she’d shoved to the ground and how he’d defended her when the Gold Cloaks came. She told her how she didn’t remember anything much, how she’d been found wandering without a clue to who she was when she was just eight years old.

            As she told her story, she reached inside her cloak for her sword. It was fondness for the blade that made her do it, but Sansa peered at it closely, cautiously.

            “May I?”

            Anya nodded, and handed it over.

            The queen turned it in her hands, squinting at the mark near the hilt. “Where did you get this?”

            “I had it with me. When they found me.”

            “Does it…” Sansa Stark swallowed before looking at her. “Does it have a name?”

            “I call it Needle,” Anya confessed, though now the name sounded silly, and childish, and stupid. “You know, like sewing needles. Only I never liked sewing. I’m terrible. My stitches are always crooked, whenever I have to patch up my clothes.”

            She wanted Sansa look down at the sword again, and smile, before handing it back.

            “I’m sorry I’m not her,” she heard herself telling the queen. “I’m sorry he lied to us. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… wanted to know who I am.”

            “I don’t think he did,” Sansa said quietly; Anya wasn’t sure if the queen was talking to herself or to her. Then, softly, she began to hum. A sweet, lilting melody – one Anya recognised. She joined in, with the words.

            “… _painted wings, things I’ll always remember_ …”

            Sansa took her hands tightly, eyes welling with tears and so much more, singing along with her. “ _Soon you’ll be home with me, once upon a winter_.” Anya stopped singing, and so did the queen. Sansa reached a hand up to Anya’s cheek. “It _is_ you.”

            She brushed her off. “Anybody could know that song.”

            “No. Our mother sang that to us, when she put us to bed when we were little girls. It was our song, and no one else’s. That sword is hers, too. My sister’s, I mean. That’s Mikken’s mark. He was our blacksmith. You’re truly her.”

            Anya’s heart beat so hard and fast she thought it might explode right out of her chest.

            He hadn’t lied. He was the boy from the Night’s Watch.

            She was home.

            “Arya,” Sansa whispered, tears clinging to her eyelashes, “little sister. Welcome home.”

 

 


	18. Chapter Seventeen – Back To Who I Was

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to interrupt the story but it's the last but one chapter! And WOW! You guys have been so sweet and so supportive of this story! It's my first time sharing any fanfic anywhere and I'm so thrilled it's been received so well. Just wanted to say a big thank you to all you lovely readers!
> 
> (Okay, back to it!)

Arya fussed with her dress. It had to be more expensive than anything she’d ever owned (at least, that she could remember owning) but Sansa was insisting. They were having a feast. There would be songs and dancing and more food than she could imagine, with all the Northern houses and their allies come to celebrate Arya Stark’s homecoming.

            After a tearful reunion with Sansa in the Godswood, Sansa had taken her to see their brother. He was familiar, too, though his wheeled chair was not.

            He held her tight. “It’s no wonder I couldn’t find you. You weren’t you. Especially not when you were with the Faceless Men.”

            “A girl had no name,” she said, and Bran nodded, as though he knew exactly what that meant. And, she supposed, he did.

            The reunion with Jon Snow had been much more emotional, when he’d returned home from his hunt and heard the news.

            He’d refused to see her at first. She’d been shut out of the solar, hearing Sansa and Jon shouting at each other on the other side of the door.

            “Sansa, she’s dead! It’s been ten years since anybody’s seen her! Even Bran can’t find her in his visions – you think, what, Robert’s bastard managed to find her, when we couldn’t? When Brienne or Bran couldn’t? When Cersei Lannister couldn’t?”

            “It’s her, Jon, I promise. She has Needle –”

            “Anybody could have Needle! It could’ve been stolen, or maybe she lost it, and it could’ve been sold and bought a dozen times over. Davos and the Kingslayer and even Edmure and Brienne could’ve been fooled, just like you. Robert’s bastard was holding _auditions_ , for fuck’s sake. Just because she had Needle –”

            “And she knows our lullaby.”

            “You think dozens of maids and servants wouldn’t have heard Catelyn sing that lullaby? And they wouldn’t have spread it across the realm? I know you wanted to find her Sansa, but – Ghost, get away. Here, boy. Ghost!”

            Something was pawing at the door on the other side, and Arya stepped back from it. The thing sniffed, whined.

            “Jon, please, if you just see her, you’ll know. Bran –”

            “Bran’s word isn’t law, Sansa. Ghost! To me.”

            The thing – the wolf, Arya realised; Jon Snow’s direwolf – whined again, claws scratching at the door.

            Despite the fact that she’d been told to stay put, she opened the door.

            She’d never been good at doing as she was told.

            She opened the door inwards to the little room Sansa had ushered her back into, and the direwolf leapt at her, pinning her to the ground and sniffing at her face.

            Perhaps she should have been terrified.

            But the direwolf in the woods near the Kingsroad – which she was deadly certain now was her Nymeria – hadn’t harmed her, and she’d been entirely wild. Ghost was tame, by all accounts.

            As if to prove it, he licked her face, and Arya giggled, reaching up to scratch his fur before he was hauled back by the scruff of his neck, and then Jon Snow, the King in the North himself, was standing over her, looking down with wide eyes.

            Arya got to her feet.

            She recognised him, better than she had Sansa or Bran. This was the boy who’d given her Needle – she’d leapt at him, hugging him fiercely, not knowing when she’d see him again now he was off to the Wall. He didn’t tease her like Robb and Theon used to, and she’d never cared he was only a half-brother, a Snow, the way Sansa had cared about it.

            “Jon,” she said, remembering.

            “It’s…” He stepped back, then forwards, then looked back at Sansa.

            “Jon.” Arya touched his arm. He was older than she remembered. His face bore new scars that were faded and old now - just new to her. But he was still her Jon, every bit like she'd expected to see. Except: “I thought you’d be all in black.”

            He laughed, the sound strangled, and bent to embrace her.

 

And now they were throwing a damned party in her honour.

            Davos had also been welcomed back fondly, an old friend of Jon’s. Brienne and Arya trusted Jaime Lannister, and so did Bran: that was enough for everybody else, apparently.

            Gendry, of course, had been released from the dungeons. He was milling about the castle somewhere. Arya hadn’t seen him since she’d stormed away from him in his cell.

            And she absolutely _wasn’t_ avoiding him.

            Just…

            Well. Avoiding him.

            She left her room – her old room, oddly familiar as everything else here was – and started downstairs. With any luck, she could steal a pile of cakes or biscuits before the feast.

            Out in the yard, before she got to the Great Hall, she passed Gendry. He had his head down, hands loose at his sides, walking with purpose.

            He was still handsome.

            Her heart stuttered, but she knew he’d been to see her sister, and pride got the better of her. As they passed, she said, “Hello, Gendry.”

            He stopped, looking up, face impassive. She might’ve been anybody. Not a girl he’d held after sleepwalking, a girl he’d almost kissed, a girl he’d laughed at when she looked like an oak tree. “Hello.”

            She couldn’t help herself. “Did you collect your reward?”

            He held her stare, unfaltering. “My business is complete.”

            He began walking again, but the maester was near – not one Arya recalled at all; apparently he’d come with Roose Bolton’s bastard years ago – and held a hand out to him. “Ah, young man, you will bow, and you will address the princess as Your Grace.”

            Arya flushed, raising a hand at the maeter. “Oh, no, that won’t be necessary –”

            “Please.” Gendry held his own hand up, at her. He bowed. “Your Grace. I’m glad you found what you were looking for.”

            Arya pushed back the lump in her throat. “Yes, I’m glad you did, too.” She looked at his clothes – the cloak, the gloves. They were fine. Fancy. New. Probably purchased with his reward money. Then she noticed the horse loaded, ready. “You’re leaving?”

            “I am.”

            She wondered which of the saddlebags was heavy with gold. Of course he wouldn’t stick around: he had what he came for. He’d traded a girl for some gold and why would he stay in the frozen North, when he could sooner be on a boat across to Essos?

            But… He couldn’t just _leave_. Just disappear. Of course he _would_ , but that didn’t mean she wanted him to. She was hurt, yes, but she didn’t want to see him go for good.

            And then she burst out, “You don’t have to go. You could stay. Here.”

            His mouth twitched on one side. “And what would I do here?”

            She floundered. _Just stay, with me_ , didn’t seem like enough of an answer. “There’s a forge. You could…”

            “Serve you, you mean?” Gendry’s mouth twisted as he looked away. When he looked back again, he told her, “I served men most of my life. Even after my master sold me to the Night’s Watch – the Brotherhood sold me to a Red Priestess who wanted to use my king’s blood for her dark magic, for Stannis. And I got back to King’s Landing, where I smithed for Lannister soldiers again. I’m done serving.” He sighed heavily, through his nose. “I’m glad you found your family. You’re a princess, now. Can go marry some high lordling and be lady of a castle of your own, somewhere.”

            “That’s not me.”

            The look he gave her cut deep: like that was exactly her.

            “I could be your family.”

            Gendry smiled, but it was sad. “You wouldn’t be my family. You’d be my lady. I’m too bloody lowborn to be kin to m’lady high.”

            Arya looked at him hopelessly, helplessly.

            “Well then. Goodbye. Your Grace.” He bowed again, even though the maester had gone. Arya watched him go to his horse, mount it, and trot towards the open gates. He didn’t look back.

            “Goodbye,” she whispered.

 

The party was loud, raucous, and giving her a headache. Arya had slunk away to hide in an alcove, and Sansa found her peering out from her hiding place into the Great Hall.

            She had a lemon cake in each hand, and offered Arya one. Smiling, she took it. “Thanks.”

            “Is it too much? I know I went a little overboard, but… Everyone’s so excited, to have you home. _We’re_ excited.”

            “It’s a wonderful party.” She shoved the cake into her mouth so she wouldn’t have to talk.

            “He’s not there,” Sansa said after a while.

            “Oh, I know he’s not there. I saw him leave. He’s probably too busy spending his reward money as fast as he can. Buying his way through every whore from here to Dorne.” She spoke with her mouth still half-full of lemon cake, and punctuated it with a sharp shrug.

            Sansa laid a hand on her arm. “Arya… He didn’t take the money.”

            Her eyes snapped to her sister. “Of course he did. That was the whole point of all this. I saw him leaving.”

            “He wouldn’t take it. I offered it to him. The whole reward. What I’d promised for your safe return home. He wouldn’t take it. He said he had a horse, and if he could get some supplies and a decent cloak for the snow, that would do him fine. He wouldn’t even take a purse for the journey.”

            Arya felt her mouth hang open as she looked for the lie in her sister’s face – the burst of, _I’m joking, of course he took the money. What else did you think he’d do, Arya Horseface? Stay because he fancies you?_

            “I didn’t…”

            “Jon told him he should stay. He said Davos had talked to him, and Gendry should stay.”

            “What about?”

            “I don’t know.”

            _I’m too bloody lowborn to be kin to m’lady high_ , he’d said, and told her she could go marry some lordling and be a lady now.

            “Fuck,” she whispered. “That stupid – bull-headed… Where’s Jon? Or Davos?”

            She didn’t want for an answer, but dashed out into the Great Hall, eyes sweeping wildly, rudely ignoring when people tried to speak to her and cutting through them when she spied Davos nursing a mug of ale in the far corner.

            “What did he say to you?”

            “Eh?”

            “Gendry. What did he say, about leaving? What did Jon say? What did you tell Jon?”

            “Only that I saw the way the two of you looked at each other.”

            “We –” Arya bit her tongue. “He didn’t look at me like anything.”

            “Oh, aye, he did, milady.” Davos smiled at her. “I told him your family wouldn’t care if you married a nobleman from Mereen, a Dornish prince, or a bastard blacksmith, so long as you were home with them.”

            At the word _marry_ she choked on her own breath a little; she hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead. Only that she didn’t want him to leave.

            Because she was hopelessly in love with him.

            No wonder Gendry had fled at the idea of it: she baulked at the idea of marrying someone, and could only imagine he’d react in the same way.

            Even if he did look at her the way Davos said he did.

            Like the way he’d looked at her on the boat when he asked her to dance.

            “I need a horse.”


	19. Chapter Eighteen - Stags That Prance Through A Silver Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... last chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who's been leaving kudos and comments, it's meant so much to me! (And now I'll let you go finish the story!) xo

He rode hard, and fast. Winterfell disappeared behind him and light flurries of snow made his teeth chatter. He was glad he’d asked for a cloak; even gladder they’d given him good gloves, too. He still had some of the coins Lord Edmure had given them. That would do him for whatever came next.

            He thought of the chests of gold Sansa had laid out open for him, waiting to be pocketed and saddled onto a horse. His reward for bringing Anya home.

            _Arya_ , he reminded himself.

            The thought of the gold made him feel sick, and he pressed the horse on harder. The sooner he got away from it, the sooner he might start to forget.

            Although that seemed damn near impossible.

            He had never forgotten about the little highborn girl he’d befriended and helped out ten years ago, and he didn’t think he’d forget her now.

            He wished he’d kissed her, on the boat. Kissed her while he could. While she was only Anya.

            Davos told him her family didn’t care, wouldn’t care. They were too thrilled to have their sister home to care. He could have her, he could be with her, they wouldn’t care, so long as she was home and happy.

            But she was a _lady_. A princess, too, since her brother and sister had decided to rule over the North side-by-side. She wouldn’t be marrying a lowborn bastard like him, a conman. He remembered the venom in her eyes when she confronted him in his cell.

            He remembered the tears in her eyes when she said, _I could be your family_. They’d almost spilled over when he rejected her. He hadn’t been able to look back to say a last goodbye. He hadn’t wanted to see her cry because of him.

            If he had to remember her at all, he wanted to remember her stood barefoot on the edge of their wagon, threatening the Mountain. Looking incredibly unimpressed by her acorn dress, wrestling with him, laughing. With her head tilted towards his, eyes shut, lips waiting to be kissed.

            Gods, he wished he’d kissed her.

            It wasn’t long before his horse tired from riding so hard, and he forced it on to the next inn at a small village, tying the horse up and leaving it to drink and rest, taking himself inside. Might as well get some dinner while he was stopped, he thought.

            He’d go East. He couldn’t stay in Westeros now. Not where everything would remind him of her. He didn’t care for a manse in Pentos surrounded by the finest things and women money could buy. He began to wonder if he’d ever really cared about that.

            A girl came round offering ale, and he took some. The girl was pretty; before, he might have flirted with her.

            When he lifted his head to drink, Arya stood across from him.

            She was panting. Her pretty silk dress was muddy.

            “You must’ve damn near killed your horse,” she said, hiking her skirts up to swing her legs over the bench opposite. “Because I damn near killed mine. Lucky I recognised it outside or I’d have gone straight past. Gods, this dress! Why did I let her talk me into wearing this bloody thing?” she muttered, still wrestling with the skirts of it, which had gotten caught on the edge of the bench.

            Gendry set down the ale; she reached for his cup of water, gulping it. “What are you doing here?”

            “Coming after you.” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Stopping you from being an idiot.”

            “I don’t need you –” He bit his tongue, looked away. What the bloody hell did she think she was doing? He didn’t think he had it in him to be cruel to her and make her leave. But he didn’t see how else she would go home. “Arya –”

            “I know what they said to you. Davos, and Jon. They’re idiots, too. I get to decide if I’m going to marry anybody.”

            Gendry’s eyes narrowed at her. She threw the words away so carelessly he wasn’t sure how to take it.

            “And you don’t get to tell me either. You don’t get to say if I’m supposed to marry some high lord and wear pretty dresses all the time.”

            “I didn’t mean…”

            She cut him off again, but it wasn’t with the authority of Lady Arya Stark she did it: it was with the stubbornness of his Anya. “I know what you meant. I’m not going to be Arya Stark if it means I have to act like a lady all the time, because I can’t do that. I never could. I just wanted to know who I was and have a family. That’s all I ever wanted.”

            Gendry swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to ignore the way his heart hammered furiously or the way his stomach twisted and palms sweat. Her stormy grey eyes bored into him, waiting.

            “You were right. I used you. I lied to you and used you for the reward money. So go home, Arya, back to your castle.”

            He pushed up from the table, but her hand shot out to grab his, and he stilled.

            “I know you didn’t take the money,” she said quietly. “Gendry, please.”

            Slowly, he sat back down.

            “Why didn’t you take it?”

            “I… I didn’t want it. You had your family back. That was enough. I couldn’t take it. I wouldn’t.”

            She nodded, pulling her hand back, and looking down into her lap.

            “I thought it would be easier if I just left.”

            “You’re an idiot.”

            “You were so angry with me.”

            “Because you’d lied to me! Of course I was angry! But you…” She frowned, still not looking up. “You didn’t insist I see Sansa until after you heard me tell Brienne how I’d escaped. You knew I was telling the truth. You were the boy from the Watch.”

            When she looked up again to search his face, her face was soft, eyes hopeful.

            “Will you come home?”

            _Home_.

            He liked the sound of that.

            It was a nice dream; but nothing more than that.

            Gendry shook his head, hating himself for doing the right thing, as he’d hated himself for not kissing her on the boat. “That’s not my home, Arya.”

            “And King’s Landing is?” she shot back, eyes blazing now. “You told me it wasn’t. You said it was just somewhere you lived. You could make Winterfell your home.”

            “Where I’d work in your forge and serve you and make steel for your brother’s armies.”

            “No! No, you wouldn’t – I mean, if you want to, you could, but you wouldn’t have to. And all this horseshit about being too lowborn – you’re a Baratheon. You might be a bastard, but you’re the last of the Baratheon line. My brother’s a king. If it bothers you that much, he’ll legitimise you.”

            “I’m not asking for –”

            “I know you’re not asking for any of that!” she cried, and reached for his hand again, with both of hers. “I just want to make you see. I don’t care. About any of it. It doesn’t matter to me. I know who my family is, Gendry.”

            He turned his hands in hers until he could lock their fingers together, but he didn’t have the words to make any of this right. He stood back up, Arya moving too, following his lead just as she had when they’d danced.

            “I’ll go find a bloody septon now and we’ll elope, if that’s what you want. Or we can ride our horses to the nearest port and get on the next ship going anywhere. I don’t care. I only –”

            Gendry kissed her. Hard and desperate and fierce. He let go her hands to hold her waist and draw he close, moaning low in the back of his throat when she pulled herself tight against him, fingers raking through his hair.

            It was the kiss he wished he’d given her on the boat, and every moment since.

            When they finally broke apart, Arya’s hand clipped him across the head.

            “Ow!”

            “That’s for not kissing me on the boat,” she told him, and jumped onto her tiptoes to kiss him again.

            They were both home, at last.

 

 

**THE END.**


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